


a time to every purpose

by bookhobbit



Series: the biblical noun phrases trilogy [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Aroflux Character, Asexual Character, Autism, Cerebral Palsy, Demiromantic Character, Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Canon, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of John Childermass's next eleven years in Mr Norrell's service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1796

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete, and will update on Fridays every week barring disasters. After it's finished, the next section, which will cover London, will immediately begin posting on the same day of the week.
> 
> As usual, thanks to Moll for beta-ing, plot help, encouragement, letting me borrow Childermass-with-CP, and being amazing, and an additional thanks to Bee (Childermassacre here) for more brainstorming and snippet-reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI Y'ALL I'M BACK. So, as of this writing, this story isn't done, but I'm about two thirds of the way through and I think I'll be done in about a week or so. 
> 
> Gosh. So much to say. I wish I'd introduced aroflux childermass earlier, but unfortunately I didn't nick the headcanon from Moll until after I'd finished writing Days. Also, you may notice some references to servants being hired when I'd previously mentioned them. Just...assume the Trouser Legs of Time. Or, you know, numerous Hannahs and Lucases. We've certainly got enough Johns to make that plausible.
> 
> Anyway, yeah. I hope you enjoy! I'm very excited to be writing this story again.

#### February 1796

Childermass has been trying to hide it for a long while now, and it is getting harder.

For a time he had thought it might not be a problem. That perhaps the others were anomalies of some sort, or that perhaps Norrell was. It is certainly true that the...experience with Norrell has been different. There is no one he had fallen for quite so slowly, nor so hard. Sometimes he wonders if there is a correlation.

It is nearly a year before he begins to feel the ups and downs truly, before he has days where the thought of being kissed makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. It is not so bad even then; Norrell is not the most romantic of paramours, nor does he initiate physical contact frequently. Childermass tries to make sure he is out of the house on days when it gets too bad so Norrell does not see him flinching. He knows it would hurt him.

He manages it, all in all, for nearly two more years after the spiral starts.

But… Norrell has a habit of peeling back Childermass's secrets without even realizing it. In February Childermass has a particularly long spell where he cannot stand to be touched, and it is too rainy to flee. He does his utmost to hide it, and he thinks he succeeds, although he can feel himself fragmenting from it.

One evening a few weeks into February he climbs into bed with Norrell - it has become habit on cold nights, and today is not too bad, so he has made no excuse - and lies down.

But he cannot make himself roll closer, hold Norrell as he might have on another day. The change is conspicuous from what they would normally do on a night like this.

There is a long, awkward silence while both of them process the space between them.

Then Norrell says, "You do not have to stay."

"Do you not want me to?" says Childermass.

"I would like you to," says Norrell, his tone carefully formal. He sits up. "However, I do not want you to feel that you must."

Childermass furrows his brow. "What?"

Norrell's shoulders stiffen, and he folds his arms tightly. "I am aware of the delicacy of our situation, Childermass," he says sharply. "I am in a position of authority over you. I know there are men who take advantage of their servants, but I have never thought to count myself among their number."

"You are not," says Childermass, which is true; Norrell has a great many faults, but this is not one of them. Where exactly did this conversation take a wrong turn?

"Then I would hope you would tell me if you no longer wanted to continue as we have been."

Childermass takes a breath. Slow, measured, even. So Norrell's skittishness is a result of his recent episode.

Well.

"I do," says Childermass carefully, "But not always. It is difficult to explain."

Norrell will not look at him, will not speak, so Childermass goes on.

"Sometimes my capacity for...tender feeling changes. I do not want to do the same things. I feel - hollow, in a manner of speaking. Absent of the ability." Childermass swallows. He has never had to tell any one before, and he is not sure of what the outcome will be. "It is not an absence of affection, nor of care. But it no longer matches up, in terms of the specific type, to what it did previously."

Norrell is quiet for a few moments, apparently absorbing this. "You find yourself with a sort of disconnexion? As if the concept of - oh, let us say kissing, is not appealing?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Childermass tries to choose his words carefully. "It has happened ever since I was a boy. It is not a flaw with you."

"You say it comes and goes?"

"Yes." Childermass shrugs, although not quite so nonchalantly as he wants to. "I know this might sound odd, sir - "

"Not so odd as that," says Norrell softly. "I believe I know what you mean."

Childermass runs a hand across his face; he can feel the tension in the lines of his own eyes. "Do you?"

"Mine does not fluctuate, but as to feeling...wrong, yes. I think so."

Childermass must shew his doubt upon his face. And, indeed, he does not think that Norrell does know; the possibility still exists that Norrell might have misunderstood, and be hurt. There is still a chance that he could ruin this. But he nods, encouraging Norrell to go on.

He seems to search for words deep inside himself. He takes a deep breath, and then begins.

"When I was a boy, my uncle had a business partner who had a son," he says. "His name was Nathaniel. This is relevant."

Childermass nods again. "Go on."

"I liked him very much." Norrell is gazing at the bedspread again and fidgeting. "And I have reason to believe he liked me. We used to talk of - oh, everything. You know how boys are. We would go for walks in the woods."

At this, Childermass cannot avoid a tiny smile. The image of Norrell walking in the woods of his own volition is far too incongruous. "Did you bring a book?" he asks.

"Generally, yes." Norrell apparently has not picked up on the teasing. "But I scarcely even read it, because I wanted to hear what he had to say."

"You fell in love with him."

Norrell sighs. "I did not. That is the problem, you see. I should have. I felt that, perhaps, I could have, given more time. I _wanted_ to; I thought it would be my only chance. But I could not make what I wanted to feel and what I felt match up."

"Hollowness," says Childermass.

"Yes," says Norrell. "You see, he kissed my cheek. And I could not react the way he wanted me to. I was frightened. There were expectations..."

"The same ones you were worried about when we kissed?" Childermass keeps his tone gentle. He cannot quite manage to reach out, not right now. He is too afraid of what will happen, too fragile-feeling and uncertain. But this he can do.

"Well, yes. But things other than what I discussed with you, as well. In both cases." Norrell rubs at the bridge of his nose. "That night when you kissed me I thought the same thing was happening over again. I thought it would spoil it all because I could not feel what you did. But, somehow, I seemed to. Perhaps because we did have more time... I do not know."

He closes his eyes and sighed. "But you see now how I understand a little how you feel."

Childermass takes a shaky breath. "You do not mind?"

"It is a foolish question," says Norrell. "I've just explained. Of course I do not."

That sharpness, that carefully-hidden affection, is a relief. Childermass relaxes, feels the knot inside himself unwinding.

"But you will have to tell me," Norrell adds. "I would not like to know that you had not told me. On days where you - cannot."

"I will."

There is a long pause, while they both consider the next move. Then Norrell says, again, "You do not have to stay."

Childermass gives himself a moment. "Can I?" He hates how vulnerable it comes out.

"If you like. It is a cold night." Norrell finally looks up at Childermass. "But I had gathered you might not want to."

"I do," says Childermass. A part of him wants to explain that sometimes, just being in Norrell's presence is a comfort, and that not all off-days are days when he wants to be alone. But none of this is needed right now, and the time would be better spent sleeping. His day begins early.

"Well, then," says Norrell a little uncertainly, and scoots down underneath the covers.

They lie, not touching, but a handsbreath apart.

Childermass falls asleep to the gentle sound of Norrell's breathing, with a weight off his chest.

 

#### April 1796

The circumstances by which Hannah is hired into Norrell's service are long, complicated, and technically Childermass's fault.

So, really, he has no one but himself to blame for the fact that a woman who is essentially his sister is now hovering around, watching him and Norrell, and drawing conclusions.

It is only that he had not expected it to be quite so immediate. For example: within the first week she is bringing tea in the library. Norrell picks up his cup, puts it on the side table, and rests a hand against it so as not to forget it, a habit of his which Childermass finds amusing. Childermass looks up, sees, smiles briefly, shakes his head, and looks back down.

Perfectly innocuous. Nothing anyone could draw any conclusions from. The trouble is, he has forgotten how very difficult it is to hide things from her.

When she comes back in to take the tray, he follows her out, intending to go and see to some business in the servant's hall.

"And what've you got going on with him?" she immediately says under her breath, watching Norrell out the corner of her eyes as she heads out the door.

"Nothing," says Childermass immediately, mostly out of habit.

"Hmmm," she says, "I'll believe that when you don't look at him like he hung the moon."

"Hannah," he says in horror, and she laughs.

"You see there? You've always been an open book to me."

"And what about the way you look at Dido?"

Hannah sets the tray down. "Dido. Is that what her name is?"

"Don't pretend you didn't ask her first thing," say Childermass, snorting. He had seen Hannah with a broom and dustpan and Dido with a duster, dancing around each other like they were at a country ball. "You two were flirting earlier."

"What is the harm in me having a bit of conversation?" Hannah folds her arms over her chest.

"I never said there was any harm, but if you'll be poking your nose on my private affairs, I'll be poking my nose into yours."

Hannah pauses to consider. "Well worth it," she says.

He gives her a disgusted look, and she laughs again, clapping him on the back. "I missed giving you grief, Johnny," she says. "For what it's worth, he looks at you like you hung the moon too. I saw it. You went to go and fetch him one of his books and while your back was turned you should have seen his face. Composed as soon as you turned around, of course. You two ought to talk to each other."

Childermass gives her a look. "There is nothing whatsoever to talk about."

Hannah arches an eyebrow. "So you _are_  together already, then?"

Childermass groans.

After that he knows no peace. She will keep pestering him with questions, though he tries to give as good as he gets.

"How's it going with the master?" she asks him when she sees him on his way out the door.

"How's it going with Dido?" he asks in return.

"Very well, I believe. She keeps having me help her with the polishing. That is a good sign, I think; she could take Agatha." Hannah raises an eyebrow.

Not an inaccurate assessment, he thinks. Norrell ought to have had a housekeeper, but Childermass _still_  has not found one after the last left, which means the duties of organization fall to the Upper Housemaid, i.e., Dido. "Maybe she thinks you're a hard worker, for some reason," he says.

"Slander against my name," says Hannah. "No, we talk. And Agatha's got more delicate fingers than I, so a better choice for polishing. Though she's stuck-up."

Childermass leaves behind the question of Hannah's romantic occupations to duck out and head for the door. "I've got to go to York to get a book."

"I'm just sure you do," she says archly, "Just you remember I can read you like a book."

"Hard to forget," says Childermass grimly, and plunges out into the rainy spring weather.

He wonders for a while whether it is merely nosiness, or if she has a purpose, a question which is answered one afternoon when he stops by the servant's hall for a cup of tea before he goes back to his study to work on the household accounts. Hannah gives it to him - the housemaids are in, taking tea together, and Agatha and Dido are sitting slightly apart and discussing some business - and says, again, "How is it going with the master?"

"None of your business." He takes a sip. "No one ever even said I had anything going."

"You can't get by me that easily. Really, though, Johnny," she says, suddenly serious. "You are all right, aren't you?"

"I always am."

"No you're not." Her voice is soft now. "But more specifically - he's not forcing you into this, is he?"

Childermass makes a face at her. "Really? That's your concern?"

"One of several. Just answer the question. I know you've never really been at ease with this sort of thing. Not entirely." He can tell she is thinking of Evie, their rivalry, the ups and downs. Perhaps even of Harry, though she had not known him; it would be like Hannah to somehow divine it.

He shakes his head. "It's not like that with him. It took us a couple of months to work up to kissing. If I had not wanted it, I could have turned him down."

Hannah looks at him for a long moment. "If you're sure."

"We're still not," Childermass begins, and then makes a face; he does not know why he is explaining this, she does not need to know. "It's not like that," he says again. "Do not worry about me."

"It's my job, with Ma gone," she says, smiling at him properly now. "I've got to."

Childermass grumbles. "You're insufferable."

"And you're a disaster. Neaten your hair, he will like it."

"Hannah," he warns, and goes back to his study.

 _Like you hung the moon,_  he remembers, and shakes his head again.

 

#### October 1796

Norrell has decided that he does not like the new maid.

Childermass has an extremely free and easy manner with her. That is no concern of his. After all, the servants are permitted to socialize. All the same, he feels vaguely uneasy with the situation and he does not know why. Any time she reaches out to pat his back, or ruffle his hair, he is reminded that virtually no one other than himself generally touches Childermass. It is not precisely that he begrudges it. Or perhaps he does, and simply does not want to admit it. He is not certain, and the feeling is very disconcerting.

Her manners are also not very servantlike. "Tea up, sir," she says, clattering into the room and setting it down. "I'll be back for the tray in a bit."

He looks at her severely. She does not seem to notice this, for she bustles out immediately. Technically, she should serve it in silence, barely acknowledging him. She really is very like Childermass, which is yet more suspicious.

"The new maid," he says eventually to Childermass one morning when he comes to help him with his clothes, "You know her?"

Childermass looks at him, guarded. "Aye."

"How?"

"Knew her when I was a child, sir." Childermass lifts Norrell's chin with one finger, and ties his cravat into a knot. Norrell is suddenly reminded of his first few months here, the dreadful job he had done on this very task. Even Childermass's own neckcloth looks neater these days.

"How long?"

"A very long time." A tiny smile tugs up at the corner of his mouth, which vaguely annoys Norrell, although he does not know why. "I have not seen her since I left to be a sailor, though."

"Hmm." A reunion of childhood friends. Norrell is no expert, but he has a sneaking and horrible suspicion that this might be a romantic circumstance. "Why did you hire her?"

"She is competent."

Norrell gives him a look; Childermass rolls his eyes. "She is," he says, "And besides which she needed a job. Have you a complaint?"

Norrell tries to phrase it, and realizes that _she seems very familiar with you_  is not likely to make much of an impact. "No," he says. "You are sure she can be trusted?"

"That I am." Childermass does up the last button on Norrell's waistcoat. Then he sticks his hands, which are freezing, on Norrell's neck.

Norrell shrieks and pushes him away. "I do not know how they can be so very cold when it is only fall," he says reproachfully.

"Poor circulation," says Childermass cheerfully. "See you in the library, sir."

For all this, Norrell is not convinced. Trusted not to steal the silverware, perhaps, but trusted not to steal Childermass?

The worst of it is that Childermass does nothing to contradict this impression. Any time she is around, his manner changes, becoming someone Norrell does not entirely recognize. He seems to spend a great deal of time around her, and sometimes even talks about her to Norrell, something he does with virtually no other servants.

One day he is going through the usual casual mentions - "Hannah believes it will be a cold winter - " and Norrell sighs loudly.

Childermass glances over at him. "I should think you'd be used to it now. You have lived in Yorkshire all your life."

"That is not the point," says Norrell irritably.

"Is this about Hannah again?"

"No." It is, of course, but he has no intention of admitting it.

Childermass, unfortunately, is not fooled. "Yes it is," he says. "Go on, then, sir. What are you worried about?"

"I suppose," says Norrell rather stiffly, "That you shall go and marry her and I shall be left alone, servantless, to care for myself."

Childermass stares in horror at Norrell.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Norrell asks. "You will."

"She's practically my _sister_ ," say Childermass, shuddering. "I don't think you know what you are proposing."

"You do not have romantic feelings for her?"

"Good god, no." Childermass grimaces. "I cannot begin to describe to you how very incorrect you are."

"Oh," says Norrell. "It is only - she knows you so very well, and from such a long time ago."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "And you thought she would be competition, is that it?"

"Well, yes." Norrell shifts uncomfortably. "It is only logical."

Childermass shakes his head. "You, jealous. Never thought I'd see the day, sir. I did not think you noticed enough to be jealous."

Norrell frowns at him for this impertinence. "I am not jealous. I was merely concerned. I would have a great deal of trouble finding a man of business of your calibre on such short notice. And if you got married, I am sure you would want to retire and start a tobacco shop, or some nonsense of that kind. I am sure I pay you well enough to afford it."

Childermass laughs then, which Norrell finds a little insulting. "No, sir," he says. "I think I would find that very dull. After you, I imagine there is little steady occupation I would not find dull."

Norrell is not sure whether he ought to take this as a compliment or an insult. He settles for saying, "I see."

"Besides," says Childermass, "Even if for some _extremely bizarre_  reason I took it into my head to marry Hannah, she would not have me."

"Why on earth not?" Norrell is indignant on Childermass's behalf. After all, he makes excellent money and is reasonably pleasant to look at; surely any woman he wants to marry ought to be amicable.

"Her proclivities do not run in my direction," says Childermass dryly. "Any more than yours would run in hers."

"Ah," says Norrell, greatly relieved. "I see. So you are not leaving my service?"

"I promised you I would help you bring back magic," says Childermass. "What sort of scoundrel would I be if I did not fulfill that?"

"Technically you spoke no promise."

"I don't go back on my word," says Childermass, reaching over and picking up his hand. Norrell feels a shiver run up him, starting at his hand and magnified by the intensity of Childermass's gaze.

"Yes...well," says Norrell, slightly distracted by Childermass's voice and proximity, "You would not be the first to have your head turned by a pretty face."

Childermass snorts. "Leaving aside the utter inappropriateness of me applying that particular phrase to her, for multiple reasons - I should think you knew me better than to think I would be so lacking in resolution. A pretty face? What's that in comparison to magic?"

"I certainly do not think it much," says Norrell, "But I will admit that my tastes do not run to the usual."

Childermass gives him a look,

"Oh, very well," says Norrell, huffing. "I shall in the future consult you before assuming you are going to run off to get married."

"That's all I ask," says Childermass.


	2. 1797

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story is DONE, y'all. By which I mean I've finished writing it, and it's been beta'd. So there should be no posting delays barring me forgetting or having a busy day at work or things like that.

#### April 1797

Norrell tuts.

It sounds like the opening of hostilities on a battlefield. It is, most assuredly, a disapproving tut. A tut of extreme disappointment with the victim. Childermass has been tutted at in this fashion before, and is quite familiar with it.

It is also an invitation. Norrell cannot properly vent his displeasure unless he has someone to vent it to.

Childermass puts down his pen, and obliges.

"What is it this time?"

"Do you know that there is a society of magicians in York?" says Norrell.

"It is no great surprize to me, no," says Childermass. "York is famous for its magical scholarship."

Norrell tuts again. "Incompetent, the lot of them."

"How do you know? Have you met them?"

"No, but I have met a dozen men like them. Dull, inexpressibly dull, without a scrap of magic. This Foxcastle is one of them, I can tell."

"They still might have ideas worth looking into," he says, although he doubts it as much as Norrell does. No man with a library the size of Norrell's and a temperament so suited to scholarly study is likely to have his studies much enhanced by a little company.

Norrell gives this the facial expression it deserves, and tsks. Childermass cannot tell if this is aimed at him or if it is another expression of disapproval at the letter.

"Go on, then," he says, rising. "What brought this on?"

"They have sent me a letter. They want me to join their society." Norrell makes a disgusted noise - a quite different one from either the tut or the tsk. He is a man with a wide range of censorious noises for all occasions, Childermass has often noted.

"And perhaps you would find the company of fellow-magicians a comfort?" He cannot stop this from coming out sarcastic, though Norrell does not notice.

"Fellow-magicians! They are _theoretical_ ," says Norrell darkly.

Childermass wonders if he should point out that no one can be anything else, because Norrell has bought up all the books of magic in England, or at least all that he can find. But it would probably do no good.

"No," Norrell continues, "It is nonsense. Furthermore they want to see my books."

Ah, that is the real issue, Childermass suspects - even more than the invitation. That alone would not have warranted two tuts and a tsk. "I am sure they merely wish to increase their knowledge."

"With my books."

"It would be a good opportunity for you to get involved."

"Involved in what?" Norrell makes a face. "In sitting and eating dinner with a lot of hidebound fools who wish English magic to be kept to its much-reduced and inglorious state?"

Childermass rolls his eyes. "With the magical community. You said you wanted to bring back magic; how will you do that if no one knows you can do it?"

"They will not believe me." Norrell crosses his arms and hands Childermass the letter. "Look. You will see. Read it."

Childermass does; the letter seems smug, but otherwise innocent. He can see why it grinds across Norrell's nerves, though. The subtle patronizing air that pervades it must bite hard from someone who cannot even do magic.

He shakes his head. "But surely if you dislike the man, and I can see that you already do, you might enjoy giving him a shock."

"Oh, and what shall I say? I am a practical magician, and I am here to bring back magic? And he will believe me?" Norrell takes the letter back. "I think not."

"You could shew him," says Childermass. "Do a spell for him. I'm sure you have something suitable."

Norrell looks suddenly fearful. "Magic is not a toy to be shewn off to any one who comes along."

"The head of the York Society is not any one." Childermass sits down on the edge of the desk. "You know he is not."

"Supposing he did not recognize magic when it was done for him?" Norrell looks away from Childermass. "Then he would put it about that I was a fraud and my reputation would be ruined."

Childermass recognizes the look in Norrell's eyes, and he thinks it is not disbelief that he fears, but failure. That magic would abandon him right then, leave him forever. He wonders how long Norrell has feared that.

"Then do something extraordinary," he says a little softer. "Something immense and highly-visible."

"There is no convincing those who do not want to believe."

 _There is no convincing those who do not want to be convinced, either,_  thinks Childermass. But he says, "Then when?"

"When?"

"When will you shew someone your magic? And to whom? You cannot stay here forever, sir, not if you really do want to bring it back."

Norrell fidgets with his pen. "Later. When I am ready."

Childermass knows there is no more point in pushing; Norrell has closed himself off and will not be convinced, not of this. So he leaves it, and watches as Norrell writes a reply to the letter that is nearly as offensive as the original.

In fact Norrell shews it to him before he sends it. "Tell me, does that make up for the insult he offered me?"

Childermass hides a smile at the signature: "your servant, Gilbert Norrell. "Yes," he says "I think so."

In the meantime, he looks into the York Society. They are, as Norrell says, all theoretical magicians. Still, when he asks his cards, he is left thinking there might be more to it than that.

Norrell tells him, "Perhaps we ought to do away with them," a few months later.

Childermass, thoughtful still, says "Not yet. We can give it a bit longer. They're no threat to you, sir."

Norrell hesitates, and then nods. "If you insist, I will trust your judgement. You have enough other things to keep you busy, I am sure."

"Yes," says Childermass.

He asks his cards what role the society will play, but receives nothing clear. Not that this is unusual.

He supposes he will have to wait and see.

 

#### September 1797

It takes Norrell some time to notice that Childermass has been having difficulty.

If it comes to it, he does not know what the difficulty is. There have been considerably more prickliness, and slightly less sarcasm, which Norrell considers a bad sign from Childermass. He is also, Norrell thinks, eating less.

Norrell starts to worry when Childermass begins to look thinner, shadowed.

"Have you been eating?" he asks.

Childermass glances at him. "I have not died yet."

Norrell sighs. "Of course you have not. But have you been eating an adequate amount? You do not look well."

Childermass's shoulders stiffen. "Have I been performing my duties inadequately?"

"No."

"Then I do not see what the issue is."

"The issue is that you might in the future. I told you to keep yourself in good order."

"You may be my master, but you do not own me." Childermass writes another figure in the account-book he is working in.

"I never said I did. You are misinterpreting it." Norrell flaps a hand irritably. "I am concerned - "

"For my wellbeing? For the value of your investment?"

"For your wellbeing, yes! Do you think me so coldhearted as to entirely lack concern for the welfare of my servants?"

"Servants, is it?" says Childermass. "That's all I am to you." It is a statement, not a question.

"Of course not. I think I have made that perfectly clear." Norrell folds his arms, feeling himself begin to stiffen. Childermass refers to this as _the hedgehog effect_ , and Norrell wishes he had not made that observation now when Childermass is so upset with him.

"Have you indeed?" Childermass's hand tightens on his pen. "You're quite sure about that, are you?"

"I have kissed you."

"Men kiss their servants all the time." Childermass scribbles another figure and Norrell feels anger unfold in himself, hot and bright as forged steel.

"How dare you insinuate that," he says, standing up. "You _know_  that I have taken pains to ensure that this is an equitable arrangement. If something makes you unhappy, you need not continue. _That_  I thought I had made perfectly clear."

"Oh, you have," says Childermass. "That, at least, I do no doubt."

"Then what? Why are you suddenly - " Norrell makes a frustrated noise and flaps his hand again.

"Not conveniently quiet and unobtrusive?"

"That is not fair either. I do not complain when you chafe me or are impudent with me - "

"Should I be grateful for that?"

Norrell feels helplessly lost, adrift on a swirl of anger and confusion. What can he possibly say? What can he do?

"I do not know what you want," he says, sitting back.

"I know," says Childermass, and exits the library.

Norrell hears the door slam loudly and winces.

What had that been about? Not, he thinks, what it seemed to be.

Childermass comes in a few hours later and drops into a chair.

Norrell is silent, merely letting him get on with work. The tension in the air has not dissipated yet.

Eventually, Childermass sighs and says, "I suppose you want an apology."

"Not particularly," says Norrell. "An explanation would be more welcome."

"I...get in moods. It happens occasionally. It has been better since I came to Hurtfew but has not gone away entirely." Childermass shrugs. "It is nothing to be concerned about. It will not interfere with my duties."

Norrell tries out a variety of sentences in his head, ranging from _perhaps, but if you are going to snap at me I would like to know about it_  to _your duties are not all I am concerned about_. Eventually he settles on "Is it not?" which is not quite as strong has he had hoped for.

Childermass ignores it, anyway, which is not a satisfactory outcome. He tries again: "Is there anything that might be done to alleviate it?"

"No," says Childermass, rubbing at his eyes. "It is a question of seeing it out." Then he does say, "I am sorry," as if he considers this a great burden upon Norrell.

Norrell does not know what to say to that. All of this seems to be quite new territory, as if a piece of Childermass he had not known existed at all is revealing itself suddenly, and he feels entirely unequipped to handle it. He wishes to ease Childermass's distress, but there seems to be no way to.

He remains silent, and then, after careful consideration, goes over and places a hand upon Childermass's back.

Childermass glances up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Attempting to comfort you," says Norrell, rather sharply to cover his own confusion and fear. "Is this not the correct procedure?"

That, finally, wrings a smile out of Childermass. "Have you not got instructions in one of your books?"

Norrell thinks that he rather wishes he had. "Do not be absurd."

Childermass seems to take this in the spirit it was intended this time, which is a relief, as Norrell was not sure how else to express his feelings. He says, "You've got a book for everything else, sir. I do not see why there should not be one to teach you how to interact correctly with other people."

"I do not see why there shouldn't either," says Norrell, sighing. "It seems a great lacuna in the available literature."

And this, somehow, manages to draw a laugh from Childermass; it is a soft pained sound, but it is a laugh nevertheless. "Perhaps you should write it, sir."

"I do not think I am qualified," says Norrell, making a face. "You would be a more suitable author."

"I do not know about that. Sometimes I think I know far less about people than I think I do." Childermass is looking at him again, but Norrell cannot tell what the look means, whether it is good or bad.

Steeling himself slightly, he bends down and kisses Childermass's forehead. He makes sure to make his intentions clear, in case Childermass does not wish to be kissed on the forehead today, but Childermass leans into it and then, when Norrell has drawn back, pulls him close by his lapels and kisses him on the lips. It is an uncommonly tender kiss considering that they have recently been fighting, and Norrell is a little alarmed.

The outcome so far has been satisfactory, but nevertheless, he decides, something must be done.

 

#### December 1797

Norrell has given some thought to Childermass's recent troubles and has decided that he ought to give him a present.

Not money. Money is quite another thing. No, he has pondered it and come to the conclusion that it ought to be something of a non-monetary value in order to shew Childermass that he is both useful and important.

He has decided on a book.

Books, he thinks, are both serious and practical. They are gifts which have a purpose and can be enjoyed again and again. They are, in short, very suitable gifts.

It takes him some time to decide which book, and going to the bookshop for it is a bit of a hazard. He can hardly send Childermass to pick up his own gift, so he waits until a week when he is gone and then asks James to take him into town.

"I have some shopping to do, you see," he explains. James very tactfully does not mention that Norrell has never done his own shopping before.

He successfully purchases it and asks the shopkeeper to wrap it up. It is not the sort of novelty gift wrapping that people are using these days, but he does not think Childermass will care about such things.

The day itself brings a dilemma, to wit, that Norrell does not know how to go about introducing the present. The Christmas bonuses had been handed out as usual, but it had not seemed quite right to give it then, and so he waited until they were both in the library, as is their usual custom. But now that they are here, how to begin?

Without ceremony, he walks over to Childermass's chair and drops the brown paper package on his lap. "Here," he says.

Childermass looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"A gift, Childermass," says Norrell impatiently. "What on earth do you think?"

"For me?"

"No, for that mangy cat that you keep in the barn."

Childermass snorts. "That mangy cat is what's keeping your house free of mice."

"That does not make it any less mangy." Norrell goes back to his seat and puts his hands on his lap. "Open it."

Childermass hides a smile, not well enough that Norrell cannot see it,and undoes the string. He unties the knot carefully and lays the twine itself away for further use, Norrell notes with approval. Then he unwraps the paper with equal care, not hurrying, but methodical. It is a sight to please Norrell's eyes.

Then the gift is free from its wrappings and in Childermass's hands.

Childermass blinks. "It's a book?"

"Revelations of 36 Other Worlds. Ormskirk, of course." It had taken him some time to find just the right book, and he is not going to have that wasted.

Childermass picks up the book carefully. "You bought me a magic book?"

Norrell shrugs. "It is a book about magic, not of magic. None of the spells work. Ormskirk is a reliable historian at points, though. I thought you would find it interesting."

Childermass nods. "I...yes. I will."

"Good." Norrell, satisfied that it had been well received, returns to his own reading.

"Why?" says Childermass, staring at the book in his hands.

"I am sorry?" Norrell looks up over the top of his glasses.

"You don't buy me Christmas presents, sir. Nor I you. You give me money, same as you do every one else in the house."

Norrell starts, then frowns, not quite sure what to say. "Given your..." He stops, tries again. "You have not quite been yourself lately. I thought this might help."

Childermass has as a strange expression on his face; Norrell cannot decipher it. He says, "You bought a book because you were worried about me? Why?"

"I did not say that," Norrell says, although he is mostly stalling for time. He takes his spectacles off and fiddles with them for a while, thinking some more. What does Childermass want to hear? After all this time, some things about him are still a mystery. He tries, "You are not every one else in the house, Childermass. I thought you knew that, but it seems I may have been wrong."

Childermass takes a long breath. "I could do with reminding every so often," he admits.

"Well, you aren't." Norrell fidgets some more with his spectacles. "I rely on you a great deal." _I would be lost without you. I trust you more than any one else._  He cannot quite reach those words, but he finishes, "A book is a good present. Or I think so."

Childermass's crooked smile spreads across his face. "Tha would," he says softly, and Norrell's breath catches. Childermass has never used this register with him before; he does not know what it means, but he is quite certain that it means _something_.

"I hope you will enjoy it," he says, fidgeting with his coat.

Childermass nods. "I will. Sorry, didn't get thee anything."

"Really, Childermass," says Norrell with a sniff, "I can buy any thing I need."

Childermass smiles again. "I am not sure that is the point of gifts."

"I order you not to think about it any more."

"If you say so." _You_ , Norrell notes, not _tha_ , and thinks he knows then what it means, or a fragment of it; closeness, or importance.

Childermass picks up the book and goes back to his chair. He immediately picks up the other book he had been reading. Norrell approves of this; starting another book before you finish your first is an untidy practice.

Norrell does not see the book again, but he is not sure that is such a bad thing. Childermass does like to hide things that are important to him, after all.

He cannot say for certain if there is a change in Childermass's mood. Such things are difficult for him to keep track of. But it does seem that he is a touch less distant.

This, too, is a satisfactory outcome.


	3. 1798

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! I am posting this very hastily before school so if you see any formatting errors let me know.

#### April 1798

Childermass is late.

This is very rare indeed. He no longer has set times during which he has to be in the library, and generally he manages to appear before Norrell needs to call him. But today he walks in nearly an hour later than his customary hour for dealing with the business of the morning.

It is not neglect. He rose earlier than usual, in fact. But he is moving so slowly that all of his morning duties have taken him much longer than expected, hence the delay.

Norrell glances up when he walks in. Childermass is making sure not to limp - he has better control of himself than that. It is an effort, but he does not think Norrell notices.

"Sorry, sir," he says. "Bit of a delay."

Norrell nods curtly and goes back to his book.

At least Childermass can rest today. He has his book-work saved up so that he can spend the day on it, rather than switching between tasks. There are the accounts to do, and a fair few letters to write, and an inventory on the new books to take. It should be quite enough to keep him busy. Ordinarily he might go to his study for some of it, but he would rather rather keep moving to a minimum, and this way if Norrell needs him he will not have far to go.

For a while, he busies himself in work, until Norrell asks him to fetch some more paper from the small hall closet just outside.

Childermass stands up, and then hisses out between his teeth and then curses in his head. He had not meant to do that, but he is not balancing well today and it is making him edgy.

"Are you quite all right, Childermass?" Norrell looks up.

"Fine, sir." Childermass keeps his tone steady. He is fine. He is going to be fine.

One step, and then another, past the threshold and when had it got this bad? He stops for a moment to lean against the wall, trying to prevent himself from wobbling. Norrell will complain if he takes too long, but then again, when has he ever heeded Norrell's complaining? It is more of a constant, almost soothing in its regularity, than a motivator.

He comes back in with the box of paper, starts to walk across the library - and then his knee goes.

It should not surprize him. This often does happen if he has been overusing it, and he ought to have been prepared, but he is not, and he loses his balances and sprawls out across the library floor, paper scattering out in front of him like leaves after a windstorm.

"For God's sake, John!" Norrell hurries across the floor to him. "What on earth is wrong?"

"Nothing," says Childermass. He lies there for a moment, trying to get his breath back, before he moves. This happens a handful of times every year, when he forgets and pushes himself too much, but he has always feels shaky and upset by it. Perhaps it is too much a reminder of his vulnerabilities or the fact that he cannot always control himself.

Norrell is to him now, kneeling down on the floor. "Nothing is wrong, but you fell down on the floor."

"It is nothing."

Norrell gives him a stern look, even as he helps him up into a sitting position.

"I rode too much yesterday, that is all."

Norrell tsks. "You ought not do such things. I told you to keep yourself in good condition."

"I wanted to be back in time to finish what I needed to do." Childermass balls his fists. "I needed to see to the family on the first farm, and if I had not come back in time I would not have been able to, sir. I do not wish to be patronized regarding my own - "

"Yes, yes, you are right." Norrell raises his hands. "You are quite right. You know what is best. It is only that I am concerned for you, you know."

Childermass takes a deep breath. "You do not need to be. I have told you before."

"You may tell me whatever you like, but I am not going to stop being concerned. I shall have to be if you insist on riding yourself into the ground."

"I was trying to do your business as best I could, sir." Childermass hears the sharpness in his own voice and cannot temper it. He can feel the tension in his chest like a knot of string tied tightly to his breastbone and is not quite sure why he is reacting so strongly to this.

Norrell seems, somehow to see it. He takes Childermass's hand and lets him sit, rather than immediately helping him onto his feet. Childermass takes another few minutes just to breath, letting Norrell's small warm hand on his calm him down a little. It helps; he feels safer here on the ground, at least, and steadier with Norrell's hand in his. It reminds him that nothing has been lost, and that this was only a momentary incident.

"And it is very good of you," says Norrell finally. "But I would much rather you were healthy. You know I care little for business. Magic is the important thing; the estate can wait."

"You would find it a great deal harder to do business if your estate were in pieces," says Childermass, still rather more sharply than he intends. But Norrell does not seem to be upset.

"Of course I would, but I would find it a great deal harder to do business if my man of business broke his leg. You are a considerable resource, you know." The tone is reproachful, but it still warms Childermass a little bit more.

"Aye, sir," he says, softening at last. "I suppose you would."

"Shall I have your crutches fetched? Or your stick?"

Childermass sighs. He would much prefer to go without either, but it was foolish not to have taken them today. "Yes, my stick. That should be enough if I do not do very much walking. Which I do not intend to."

Norrell nods and rings for Thomas, the footman of the moment. While they wait, he takes Childermass's hands and helps him to his feet, and then to his chair.

"Thank you, sir," says Childermass.

Norrell only holds onto Childermass's hand for a few lingering moments, and then goes back to his book.

Somehow, that is enough.

 

#### September 1798

Childermass's magical studies are progressing quite well, he thinks.

Not, of course, that they are official. What they mostly consist of is Childermass stealing books he is not supposed to be reading from the shelves and reading them anyway, in secret, when Norrell is not there and he is working on his own. It is increasingly easy.

He feels a little guilty about it, but not as much as he might. Secretly, he suspects that Norrell does not want to know he is studying, more than he does not want him to study. Norrell needs someone who can go about for him, someone who knows magic. Even if he refuses to teach Childermass, Childermass needs to know.

So, by and large, it is not something he feels very badly about.

The difficulty is in getting uninterrupted hours of study, but he manages that. For instance, this evening Norrell is to go to a dinner-party.

This is, of course, quite an unusual event; convincing Norrell to leave his house under any circumstances is a great trial. But the neighbors in question have been unusually persistent, and so he is there, likely being extremely annoyed and picking at his food.

Childermass smiles at the mental image. He knows very well how Norrell looks when he is vexed, the particular sour set to his mouth.

Shaking his head, he pulls his book down from the the shelf. _The Excellences of Christo-Judaic Magicks_. Mostly offensive magic, which is not Childermass's sort of thing, but there was one spell….

Yes, there it was. _How to conceal the Bodie in Shadows_. He puts the book down carefully and begins to read.

It seems simple enough. There are no ingredients, as might be expected for a spell which needed to be conducted with secrecy and stealth. The only true requirement is some shadows.

He stands back into the corner and closes his eyes. Will yourself into shapelessness, the spell had said. Unravel into the background. Childermass breathes in, and then slowly out, letting his shoulders relax and his mind calm.

He tries to let himself fade, become part of the darkness around him. The temptation is to reach out, but he knows that is not right; that would only call attention to himself. He remembers picking pockets, blending soundlessly into a crowd, and he chases that same feeling of being no longer a person but a piece of a puzzle.

The spell flares into life. He feels his own magic tugging at his chest and then spreading out, covering him, and he smiles.

It had worked. How does he deactivate it? He steps forward, feels the magic dissolving around him, and is almost pushed out of the shadows and into the light.

But before he can analyze the feeling, there is a clatter outside. Norrell is back early. Hurriedly, Childermass repeats the spell as he hurries into a corner. The feeling rushes over him, still slightly disorienting, and he leans against one of the bookcases to steady himself.

Is he safe? Will this be enough?

The door to the library thumps open then, so he will find out very soon.

"Childermass - " Norrell begins, and stops.

Childermass holds his breath. The book clutched to his chest feels heavy and dry, as if it will rattle at any moment and give him away.

"Childermass? Are you in here?" Norrell wanders around the edges of the library. He passes right by the corner Childermass is sequestered in and Childermass has to remind himself to stay still. Norrell pauses, looks around a few times, but he does not turn toward Childermass.

Then he leaves.

Childermass deactivates the spell and shoves the book back in place. He begins tidying up the library. The crucial thing now is to be quite, quite casual. Norrell will come back soon and want to know where he was. But he will think nothing of it if Childermass does it correctly.

Sure enough, Norrell comes back to the library and starts when he sees Childermass sitting there.

"There you are. I looked for you, but you were not here," he says irritably.

"I stepped out for a moment. How was your dinner, sir?" Childermass asks, tidying away some papers.

Norrell makes a sound of disgust. "It was absolutely dreadful. There was a man there who would not stop talking to me."

"You're not going to do very well in the cities if you do not learn to talk to people," says Childermass.

Norrell purses his lips. "I wish you would stop reminding me of that."

Childermass inclines his head and neatens the papers in front of him.

For a moment, Norrell drums his fingers on the table. "When I came in here earlier - I thought I felt a hint of magic."

For a moment, Childermass's heart stops. "Magic?" He raises an eyebrow. "Who can do magic in the library?"

"Well, you can."

Childermass gives Norrell a disbelieving look. "You really think I was doing magic in your library, sir?"

Norrell's gaze flicks to the book that Childermass had been using. Had Childermass put it back wrong? Norrell's ability to tell if his books had been disturbed is quite uncanny. Their eyes meet. Childermass keeps his face impassive.

"No," says Norrell finally. "No, I suppose not. You are not much of a magician, after all."

Not _you would not do that_ , Childermass notes. Everything means something with Norrell. "Certainly not as much as you," he says.

"No," says Norrell again. "Well, next time you will have to come with me. I had an entirely dreadful time and no one to complain to."

Childermass listens to Norrell's list of complaints about his hosts (rude), the food (indigestible) and the music (entirely too loud), and wonders if he has been given permission or sanction. But after all, if Norrell had wanted to know he could have pressed. He is not a man who gives up easily.

Childermass decides that he was right. Norrell does not want to know. He needs someone who can go about for him, doing his business, and since his business is magic, that person will need to know magic. But Norrell cannot bear the thought of another magician, and so Childermass must keep it secret.

Well, if that is the price, he can do it. He is quite good at secrets after all.

 

#### December 1798

When Norrell wakes up, wakes up, it is still dark. For a moment, he is not quite sure what has caused it, and then a fresh wave of pain sweeps through him.

Ah. Yes. That. He curls up tighter, wrapping his arms around himself and hissing with the intensity of it. The first three days are always the worst, and this is only the first.

Or perhaps technically the second now. He cannot see the clock, but there is a very good chance it is past midnight.

Another cramp rolls through him, leaving him nauseous. But there is nothing to do other than see it out; he cannot get a hot cloth at this hour, the fire has died down and he does not trust himself with it at this hour.

He wishes Childermass were here; if he were, he might perhaps wake up and soothe Norrell with a backrub, or at least listen to him complain. But he is back in his own bed tonight, it having been an off day today.

Norrell rolls over and tries deep breathing. It does not help in the slightest.  

He spends the rest of the night drifting in and out of sleep. The cramps ease just before he wakes up properly, but when he gets up, he puts his shoes outside the door and closes it, a sign to Childermass that he will dress himself. The idea of being touched is very unappealing today.

Of course the reprieve does not last. The cramps are back by the time he is in the library and ready to work.

Childermass absently sticks his hands on the back of Norrell's neck when he comes in, a not unusual procedure, but right now it makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

"Not today," says Norrell, trying to keep the tightness out of his voice.

Childermas stops. Norrell knows that this break of pattern - for normally Norrell would scold Childermass for it - is enough to alert him that something is wrong.

"Sir?"

"I do not feel well." Norrell wraps his arms around his stomach unhappily.

"Perhaps you should be in bed."

"No." Norrell fidgets with his papers. "I spend quite enough time in bed. I will be fine." He pulls a notebook towards himself and begins writing.

Childermass nods and goes to sit down.

Unfortunately, Norrell has never been particularly good at hiding his own reactions. As soon as a fresh cramp contracts through him, he hunches over and hisses through his teeth.

"Sir?" Childermass is half out of his chair before the word is finished. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing whatsoever," says Norrell, somewhat unsuccessfully.

"What do you do when I tell you nothing's wrong even though you can see I'm in pain?" says Childermass dryly.

"Yes, but this is normal," says Norrell, uncurling as the sharp ache eases a little.

"So is mine."

"But mine cannot be fixed with careful attention to my lifestyle."

"Nor can mine always. But there are things I can do to relieve it. What ails you?"

"You ought to know by now," says Norrell irritably. He hates talking about it, even with Childermass. Even though he knows, and even though he often helps him with some of the more unpleasant tasks associated with this time, he cannot shake the deep humiliation he feels about it.

"Ah. I see. The usual aches, I assume, then."

"Fetch me a hot cloth," says Norrell. If he is not going to be able to keep it a secret, he might at least have some relief.

Childermass leaves, and when he returns not only does he have a cloth to heat, but also a cup of tea.

"Here. I'll fix your cloth in a minute, but I asked Hannah - "

"What?" Norrell sits up straighter. "What did you say?"

"Nothing specific, do not worry. I said that someone of my acquaintance was having trouble with aches and what did she do in the same situation. She said tea was good for the pain, meadowsweet and willowbark."

"Meadowsweet?" Norrell reaches out cautiously for the tea.

"I put some sugar in it for you, sir. I know you like your tea sweet."

Norrell nods and takes a sip. It is not bad; there is a faint almond taste to it, and it is indeed sweet. Childermass has left out the milk, but it is pleasant enough.

Childermassquietly taking his cloth for heating and returning it while he drinks, then sitting quietly down beside him.

By the time the tea is finished he is feeling a little less pain, though he cannot tell whether it is the drink or simply the heat. He wraps his coat around him tighter and sighs.

"Thank you, Childermass," he says. "I do feel better."

"Are you sure you would not rather sleep?"

"No. I am fine. I grow tired of sleeping at these times. I would much rather work."

Childermass nods, and takes the teacup. He kisses Norrell's forehead as he leans over him. The gesture makes Norrell feel safe and comforted, and this, too, eases the aches a little.

"It helps with joint aches too, she says," he tells Norrell as he sets the cup down on the table. "So when your hands hurt from writing too much, I will ask her to make you some of it."

"Does she make it for you when you are in pain?"

Childermass makes a face. "I do not tell her when I am in pain."

"Perhaps you should." Norrell watches Childermass's movements as he walks back over to his chair; he is moving smoothly today, but that does not necessarily mean he is fine.

"I shouldn't. She's worse than you are." Childermass shakes his head. "Fusses endlessly."

"Perhaps if you took care of yourself…"

"I take it back. You are both as bad as each other. Are you feeling better, then?"

Norrell considers. "A little. Please pass on my appreciation for the tea - no. Your acquaintance's, I suppose."

Childermass covers his smile with his hand, but Norrell still catches it. "I will find a way to convey on the message, sir."

"Good. See that you do. And see that you tell her next time, or I will. You know that I can tell."

Childermass shakes his head. "Stubborn as the devil, both of you."

"I cannot believe _you_  are saying that to me."

Childermass smirks as he leaves, and Norrell muses that perhaps neither of them would have it any other way.


	4. 1799

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO I finally finished the third part of this series! To celebrate I am posting a double update, so don't miss the one next. Anyway, so as soon as this fic is done I'll start posting the next one. Also, this chapter directly references something Moll's written about in 'i saw him down by the river' because, you know, we basically have a combined canon by now. You don't actually need to read it to understand this but I recommend it anyway because it's excellent.

####  March 1799

Dido sets the tea-tray down with nary a rattle, Norrell observes with quiet pleasure when he looks up from his book. It is very competent of her. 

He takes up his cup and tests the temperature of the tea; it is just hot enough, and so he takes a sip.

A moment of perfect peace.

Of course, nothing can last. The door creaks open, and Norrell turns, expecting Childermass back early from his business trip, or perhaps one of the footmen.

But no...it is a man.

A man, he realizes, with a knife. 

Norrell stands up, backing away behind his own desk. "Put that down," he says. "What have you come here for?"

"Money," says the man, "What else? Tell me where it is." He waves the knife irritably. 

Dido, with some presence of mind, screams. It occurs to Norrell that this will at least alert any one in the house, and indeed, the man seems to realize it too, because he turns to her and says "Shut your mouth!"

"Really," says Norrell, "There is no need for such things."

The man turns to him.

"There is absolutely no need to stab any one," says Norrell sternly. But the man edges closer, knife in his hand. Dido looks wide-eyed, afraid, which does not seem sensible because the man is away from her now.

And then Hannah is in the doorway, stern-faced and pale and holding a pistol. The man turns, suddenly alert, and leaps forward - 

A shot rings out, horribly loud; were he not in such a delicate position Norrell would cover his ears. For a moment he thinks he has been shot, but no, the thief slowly drops to the ground, wheezing and clutching at his stomach. Where has the knife gone? 

Blood is dripping down his waistcoat. Was he shot after all?

Ah. No. There is the knife, on the floor, with blood on it. His blood, presumably. Hannah hurries toward him as he stumbles backward and clutches at the desk behind him, trying to stay upright.

"Sir, sir, stay with me, sir," she says, which he considers a thoroughly ridiculous thing to say. Where would he go? "Where on earth did you get a pistol?" says Norrell, feeling himself slide down against the desk. "How long have you - "

"I don't think this is the time," says Hannah. "How badly did he get you?"

"I - I do not know." There is a great clattering and servants come rushing in, the two footmen Norrell thinks by the livery and James, the coachman. He takes a look around, and begins seeing to the man on the floor.

He says, quiet and calm, "I'd ask you for an explanation but this ain't the time. Is the master all right?"

"Stabbed. Tom, get the doctor!" The youngest footman flies out the door at Hannah's command.

Norrell is beginning to feel rather dizzy, and loses track for a moment. Hannah is beside him and so is Dido, and Hannah is holding her arm very tightly as if she is afraid of losing her. There are too many voices and too many sounds and he loses track until there is another movement.

Childermass comes running in with it, and Norrell thinks faintly that he has never seen him look quite so frightened. There is no coolness, no watchfulness; it is quite disconcerting. Had he not been on a trip? He ought to have been on a trip.

There are still too many voices. He cannot hear anything properly. He gets snatches - Childermass to Hannah, "Are you all right?" and Hannah to Dido, the same question. Childermass is striding toward Norrell at the same time, then crouching down, gentle, in front of him.

"What happened, sir?" he asks, untying his own cravat and pressing it down on Norrell's wound. It ought to hurt; he feels numb, though, and cannot process much.

"There was a man," says Norrell weakly, and adds "He stabbed me," in a more injured tone. "I told him he need not do that."

"Indeed he need not have," says Childermass. "Did someone call for a doctor?"

"Tom  is seeing to it," says Hannah. 

"And as for you - you never answered me."

"You oughtn't worry about me, worry about him," says Hannah sharply. She sounds just like Childermass then. It occurs to Norrell that they really are very alike in some ways.

"You've just shot a man," says Childermass roughly. "You've a right to be a bit shaken up."

"I'm _fine_ ," she snaps, "It's Dido I'm worried about."

"I'm perfectly fine as well," says Dido. "Really, sparrow, I am. Listen to Mr Childermass."

"Thank you," says Childermass, but it seems to Norrell that it lacks the usual dryness. He sounds breathless, and he is pressing down very hard on Norrell's shoulder. It is beginning to hurt now. He twists, attempting to escape it.

"Stay still, sir," says Childermass, his voice suddenly back to gentle. "If tha wriggles I cannot see to thee properly." 

Norrell murmurs in tired protest, but he lacks the energy to truly disagree.

It occurs to him then. A word that had been bother him. What was it? Something - 

Doctor.

He tries to sit up in a panic, but Childermass's weight is pressing him down. "Doctor," he says weakly.

"We've sent for one," says Childermass.

"No," says Norrell. "No, no. Don't."

"Sir, I need - I cannot help you on my own." Even as confused and alarmed as he is, Norrell can hear the desperation in Childermass's voice, and Hannah rests a hand on his back. The action makes no sense to Norrell at the moment, but he lets it be; there are more urgent things.

"No doctor," he says. "He will _see_."

He thinks he will have to elaborate, and is not sure he will be able to with so many others here, but Childermass's face shuts down in the way that means he is trying not to have a reaction. He closes his eyes, and then considers.

"Hannah," he says, "Have you got any sewing stuff?"

"Yes, but you can't mean - "

"Bring it. Please. And some ice from the icehouse. And some brandy."

Everything feels very fuzzy. He is not quite sure what is happening, until Childermass presses the brandy bottle to his lips. "Drink, sir," he says. "Just a bit."

Norrell does.

After that, what he mostly remembers is distant pain. It seems more like it is happening to someone else and being described to him, as if it is not quite real. But if so, the story is uncommonly vivid. He thinks he can hear a sort of whimpering and until his throat feels sore he does not realize it is himself.

He cannot remember when he loses track for the last time, but he must, because the next thing he knows he is opening his eyes to his bedroom. Childermass is sitting there, looking tired. Has he slept? 

"You were on a business trip," he says faintly.

Childermass looks up. There is a brief expression of relief and gladness on his face before it is gone, swallowed up by his usual default impassiveness.

"Got back just in time for you to give me the scare of my life," he says. "I met Tom running out the door and all I could get out of him was that you had been stabbed. Thought you were dead."

Norrell feels vaguely queasy. "Was I near?"

"No." Childermass smiles a weary little smile. "You lost a bit of blood, but nothing you won't recover from if you rest properly."

"I felt very odd, Childermass."

"The shock of it, possibly." Childermass sighs. "I am sorry, sir."

"Whatever for?" Norrell sits up a little and finds he is not too dizzy. 

"Not being here. I ought to have - "

"You were on business for me," says Norrell. "What would be the point of having you if I could not send you out?"

"But you might have…"

"Really," says Norrell, sitting up a little bit more. "I was the one who was injured, Childermass. I believe you should be comforting me."

Childermass smiles again. "With what, sir?"

"Tea would be a start."

Norrell gets his tea, and books, and some broth and toast. When he is settled again, he asks, "Did the doctor - "

"I patched you up. Do you remember?"

He grimaces. "Only very vaguely."

"Probably just as well." Childermass looks at his hands, as if remembering what he has done with them. "After that I shewed the doctor what I'd done, but I did not let him take your shirt off. Your vest is ruined, by the way."

Norrell sighs with an odd mixture of exasperation and relief. "I suppose I should be grateful if that is the worst of it. Did he see it? What did he say?"

"I told him it was for back support."

"And he believed you?"

Childermass shrugs. "Seemed to."

Norrell nods. "And the man?"

"Broke in looking for money."

"How did he get through the wards?" Norrell can still feel them intact. "Surely the protections should have kept him out."

"Perhaps you should look into strengthening them," says Childermass. 

"I shall. What became of him?"

"He did not survive the shooting." Childermass shrugs.

Norrell finds it hard to be sympathetic about this when he shifts and feels the pain in his shoulder. "Well, I shall not mourn him greatly, I am afraid."

"Don't do that again," say Childermass.

Norrell frowns. "Mourn?"

"Get stabbed."

Norrell looks at him over his book. "I can personally assure you that I had no intention of doing it the first time."

"Well, take more care." The tone is softer than the words ought to mean, Norrell notes.

"I shall," he says, then "John?" knowing it will change the tenor of the conversation.

"Yes, love." Childermass leans forward a little, hands on his knees.

"Thank you. For - helping me."

A smile spreads slowly over Childermass's face. "You can repay me by avoiding a repeat incident."

"I have already told you that I have been trying to," says Norrell irritably. 

"Not well enough."

Norrell sniffs disapprovingly. "Get some sleep. You grow very strange and irrational when you lack it."

For a moment Childermass looks uncertain. "You will be well?"

"Another intruder is hardly likely to come in and stab me while you rest. Go. Send one of the footmen in."

Childermass nods and exits.

There are a great number of things Norrell might contemplate, here in the silence. The look of naked worry on Childermass's face, his quick obedience of Norrell's request in the face of difficult circumstances. _Do not get stabbed again_ , with an underlying sense of _I do not wish to lose you_. That little smile when Norrell had thanked him.

Norrell picks up his book again and reads instead, because it is far easier.

 

####  July 1799

"Warm tonight," says Childermass, pulling Norrell's shirt up over his head and unlacing his vest.

"Exceedingly," says Norrell in a disapproving tone. 

"Would you like me to sleep in my own bed for a change?" Childermass turns his back while Norrell changes into his nightclothes.

"No. I want you to stay."

"As you wish." Childermass turns back around and does Norrell's buttons up. "There you are. I will be back when I have finished my duties."

He goes and locks up the house, finishes his last few duties for the night, and changes into his nightclothes. As usual, Norrell is sitting up reading by candlelight when he returns, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. When Childermass enters he looks up and closes his book. 

"Not employing your coat in double duty," he says. "For a change."

"It's too hot for a dressing gown." Childermass turns down the covers and crawls under them. "I see you did not have any one build up the fire. I have never seen clearer proof that it is entirely too hot."

They lie down, but Childermass finds himself uncomfortable. He sticks his feet out from under the covers, trying to find some relief from the heat, but this dislodges Norrell's blankets and Norrell grumbles.

"I am taking my nightshirt off," says Childermass. "I can't endure this. Will that trouble you?"

"No, but I shall leave mine on." Norrell wraps his arms around himself. "For the present, in any case."

Childermass holds back _nothing I haven't seen before_ ; that is not the point, and Norrell deserves privacy. There is a difference between removing your shirt in front of someone you trust so that they can help you get immediately dressed again, and what they are doing now. Skin on skin is intimate in a way that he is not sure will ever be Norrell's particular interest.

For himself, he is no longer self-conscious about it. At least, not for the most part.

It is inevitable, really, that Norrell will notice them. He has noticed all the others. He seems to take a careful catalogue of Childermass's body when it presents itself for observation, like this is something he is making an effort at. 

And he does. Childermass sees the change in his face, the flicker of surprise and then concentration. He reaches out, and then stops himself, draws his hand back.

"You can if you like," says Childermass. "They are not painful. But don't ask me about them."

Norrell looks up at him and nods, reaches out again. Childermass feels his fingers tracing feather-light lines across the ropey, faded old scars on his back.

"Are - " Norrell begins, and bites it off. 

"They are from whipping, yes." Childermass sits perfectly still as those fingers traverse his back, down to the curve of his ribs where they end. It is a ticklish feeling. "I do not want to talk about the circumstances, nor who gave them to me. Not right now."

"Very well. Then I shall not ask." Norrell rests his hand on Childermass's shoulder; it feels cool against his hot skin and he shivers at the contrast.

Childermass sighs and lets the feeling unwind him slowly. Norrell takes his hand away and, startlingly, leans down and kisses Childermass's shoulder.

Childermass only just manages not to flinch; Norrell seems to pick up on this. "Was that not...for today?" he asks. 

"No. It was only that I was not expecting it. I did not mind. Come, sir. Are you ready to lie back down?"

There is a short pause in which Norrell probably nods, forgetting perhaps that Childermass cannot see him, and then Childermass hears him slide back down under the covers.

Childermass follows suite. It is much more comfortable this way; he wraps his arms around Norrell and sighs, finally feeling relaxed.

Norrell, however, will not stop wiggling. After several minutes of this he sits up and kicks off the blankets. "No," he says. "I cannot do this."

"You could take your nightshirt off." Childermass shrugs. "It might help."

Norrell visibly recoils. 

"Or not," says Childermass. "You do not have to. I can leave, or we can sleep with space between us. Or you can stay dressed, if you are not too hot."

"I am," Norrell says, grumbling. "What sort of temperature this is I do not know. Really."

"It is July," says Childermass patiently. 

"Yes, but this is Yorkshire." Norrell sighs. "It is an unreasonable temperature for this part of the world." 

"You could go without blankets," Childermass says.

Norrell gives him a horrified look. "No. Absolutely not. And I do not want you to go. I want you here."

Childermass hides a smile at the matter of fact tone of this. Norrell possesses virtually no capability for romance, but sometimes, just every so often, he says things like this with no apparent awareness of just what they might mean. "Well," he says, keeping his voice gentle, "What would you like to do?"

Norrell hesitates for a long moment and then removes his nightshirt. 

Underneath it he has drawers and a soft vest, not laced like his day one but plain. Childermass has seen it before when he helps Norrell into his bed things, but not for more than a minute or two; here Childermass can look unimpeded. He tries not to, though. Norrell's posture is hunched and uncomfortable, as if trying to hide the fact that his shape is now different. So Childermass keeps his eyes on Norrell's face, drifting off to the side when Norrell's eyes slide away.

"There," says Norrell, "Are you satisfied?"

"Are you?"

Norrell looks startled by the question, as if he is not quite sure what Childermass means. "I am comfortable," he ventures cautiously.

"Well," says Childermass, "We both ought to be less warm, at least."

"Yes," says Norrell. "I suppose so." He lies down, turns over so that his back is to Childermass.

Childermass wraps an arm around him and finally feels cool enough to sleep.

 

####  November 1799

It is an uncommonly sunny day for November, Childermass reflects. Especially for November here in York. They had picked an excellent day to go looking for the book Norrell had wanted, and an even better one for Norrell to have actually gone through with coming along, for a change. But he had needed a new waistcoat, and the tailor needed to measure him, and so, grumbling, he had made the carriage-ride down with Childermass in tow.

The waistcoat has been ordered now and the book safely secured. Childermass has it tucked under his arm as they walk through the streets back to the carriage-house where James is likely sitting and socializing with his fellows.

"Nice out," says Childermass.

"Aye. I would have expected a gloomy day at this time of year." Norrell squints up at the sky suspiciously, as if any moment it could in fact fill up with clouds like water pouring into a glass and then suddenly burst with rain. 

The come to a stop on Monk Bridge and look out at the Foss, brown and bubbling with motion.

"It reminds me of when we met," says Norrell. "Of course, that was the Hurt. But still."

"Bridges remind you of me now?" Childermass asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yes," says Norrell. "The circumstances were unusual. I can think of no other servants I gained through my coachman rescuing them from rivers."

"I suppose it is not very common," Childermass agrees.

There's a quietness for a while, with the bustle of foot-traffic around them.

"That night when James found you on the bridge," says Norrell quietly. "You did not fall in."

"No," says Childermass. "I jumped." There seems no point in hiding it, not if Norrell already sounds so certain. He keeps his voice pitched low, so that the pedestrians behind them cannot hear. 

Norrell is silent. Childermass expects something more, possibly a why, but nothing is forthcoming. Only the continuous presence at his side, thinking.

Finally Childermass says, "Have you no questions, then?"

Norrell shrugs. "I do not suppose you could adequately answer them. I have known despair myself - perhaps not of your kind, but I know that it is rarely easy to explain to another party." A pause. "You aren't thinking of doing it again, are you?"

"No." Childermass rubs his eyes. "Not just now. I have something to work towards; I can't quite yet."

"Well," says Norrell, "Good. I would very much hate to be pressed into finding a new man of business at the eleventh hour."

"I'd give you my two weeks' notice," says Childermass. Norrell gives him a startled glance and Childermass remembers too late that he is not particularly good at detecting humor. "It was a joke," he says. "No need to worry."

Norrell looks unconvinced, but settles down to lean on the bridge. 

"How did you know?" Childermass asks.

"Know what? The particulars of that story? I guessed them. James hinted to me several times - he seemed to think it was important. Perhaps he is worried that you will find the desire again."

Childermass shakes his head. "I do not think so." He adds, half to himself gazing out at the river, "He spared me for a reason, I suppose, if it was he who spared me."

Norrell glances at him. "Who?"

And now he is to pay the price for voicing things he has not thought through. Childermass sighs. "The Raven King. I know you do not believe in him - "

"Have I ever implied that?" Norrell keeps his gaze fixed on the water even as Childermass looks over at him in slight surprize.

"Not precisely, but I thought…" Norrell's pear tree was planted by the Raven King, but all the same there are different levels of belief. He wonders if they are talking at cross-purposes.

"You were telling me about your own feelings for him," says Norrell. "He saved you for a reason?"

Childermass shrugs. "Only that perhaps I have a part to play. In this. With you."

"And you think he played a part in putting you there?" There is less scorn in Norrell's voice than Childermass had expected.

"It's possible. Can't tell with old gods and old kings." Childermass tosses a rock out into the river. "I sometimes think that he is less of a moving force than a...thread. A connexion."

"Is that not what magic is?" says Norrell thoughtfully. "A thread and a force at once?"

Childermass glances at him again; he is still looking out in the river, watching the ripples from the stone. "What do you mean?"

Norrell shakes his head. "The thought was half-formed."

"Go on." Any distraction from his own thoughts is welcome right now.

"It is only...magic is a force, of course, but it is a connecting strand as well. History, you see. The history of the North is woven through with magic. I see no reason why the history of Northerner's lives should not be as well." Norrell shakes his head again. "Nothing very important, really."

Childermass considers. Magic has always been the connecting thread in his life, he thinks; his mother's instincts, his own fascination. "It makes sense, though. When I… I told him that if he had any plans for me, now would be a good time to start them. Perhaps he heard me. Perhaps that was part of the thread."

Norrell makes a face, something between a grimace and a pained smile. "Bridges are the Raven King's too, you know. They mark a halfway point between one place and the next, and that is where he was always found. At the edges of things."

"Ruins," says Childermass, "Halfway between tamed and wild."

"Yes." Norrell picks his stick up and turns towards their road. "So perhaps you chose the right place to ask."

If that's the case, it has taken him places he had never guessed he would go. But then, Childermass thinks, that is the point of gods, is it not?

He follows Norrell back to the carriage and back to Hurtfew. It is getting harder not to think of it as _back home_.


	5. 1800

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, if you didn't catch it, I'm updating twice this week to celebrate having finished the third fic, so don't miss the chapter before this.

####  January 1800

"You've got to go to Ripon," says Childermass, setting the mail down. "You need new vests and you know you don't like me to get them for you without you being there." Norrell has his vests made in Ripon because he never goes there for any thing else, and so there is less risk of seeing any one he knows.

"Yes, yes. It seems like I am having to leave very often these days." Norrell sighs heavily. "I cannot bear the city."

"Didn't you grow up in York?" 

"Yes, and I no longer live there for a reason."

"You know that if you aim to bring magic back you will not be able to stay here in Hurtfew," says Childermass.

Norrell frowns. "I would have to stay in York?"

"London, probably." Childermass picks up a letter. "Particularly if you intend to set up yourself as an important person. That is where important people tend to go, sir."

"But if I go to London, what if - what if I am found out?" Norrell looks suddenly distressed.

Childermass opens his mouth to say _found out what?_   Norrell's magic certainly has nothing that has to be kept secret, at least as far as Childermass knows, so then -

Oh. Childermass closes his mouth. It is perhaps odd, but Childermass frequently forgets that there is anything to be found out at all. Norrell is a gentleman, and he needs his vests to attain the shape he prefers, and he occasionally needs meadowsweet-and-willowbark tea to help him overcome maladies more commonly associated in the popular imagination with ladies. There is no contradiction in any of that, to him. None of it makes him any less a man.

He is aware that many other people will not see it that way, however.

"Are you worried about being found out, sir?" he asks, pulling a chair up beside Norrell. Perhaps this is one of the reasons Norrell is so concerned about shewing his magic. 

"Well, naturally, in the public eye it will be much more difficult. Norrell wraps his arms around himself and rocks unhappily. "I would not have to - to go back to it, would I?"

"What?" Childermass reaches out and takes his hands. "No. Of course not. I would not allow that." He gives Norrell a little crooked smile. "Besides, it would convince no one. You are a gentleman, sir, and you would have a terribly difficult time pretending to be a lady."

"I feel sometimes - " Norrell shudders. "I feel sometimes that everyone is only humoring me. That I will never properly be seen as…"

"As what you, in fact, are?"

Norrell looks up at him. "Am I?" he says, and there is a pain in his face that makes Childermass want to hurt every one who taught him he could not be.

"Yes. You are." Childermass keeps his voice steady, keeps that sudden surge of emotion out of it. "To me, and I am the only one who knows, am I not?"

Norrell nods. 

"In that case you need not worry about them."

"But supposing they notice," says Norrell. "Supposing they realize?"

"They won't. They did not at your uncle's funeral, and they will not now." Childermass squeezes Norrell's hands. "You are safe."

Norrell's gaze falls to the carpet. "I suppose you have wondered. How it is I came here."

Childermass thinks about saying _to Hurtfew?_ , but he knows what Norrell means and to pretend otherwise would be silly. "Aye, but I have not asked for a reason. You do not need to tell me."

Norrell shrugs. "I do not see why I should not. You have already seen my name. When you went to change records."

"Your name is Gilbert. The other is the name of someone dead."

There is a catch in Norrell's breathing. He says, "It has never felt like my name."

"The...dead one?"

"No. Yes, but Gilbert. That was my grandfather's name, not mine. I sometimes feel that I do not have a name at all." 

Childermass considers this. "Do you want me to start calling you Gilbert when you call me John?"

Norrell looks at him. "I...rather like the current arrangement, in fact."

_Oh_.  Childermass remembers sleepy darkness and being jolted awake by his own reckless mouth; the habit had seemed to develop naturally after that, and he had not thought to question Norrell's lack of objection.

"Well, I am glad of that, but it does not fix the problem," he says. "Every one should have a name."

Norrell shrugs. "I have no need of any kind of attachment to my Christian name. No one but you has cause to use it and as I said I find the current arrangement satisfactory. I was telling you how I came to...be who I am."

This must, Childermass thinks, be difficult to talk about, so he keeps silent.

Norrell sighs. "I was twelve. My parents had died. My uncle invited me to his house. However, he had not seen me in some time and had no memory of me and so he thought perhaps I was a boy-child." He is silent for a long moment. "I sewed myself some clothes."

"Somehow the image of you sewing is incongruous," says Childermass dryly.

Somehow this seems to be the right thing to say; perhaps it reinforces for Norrell that he is seen how he wishes to be seen. He relaxes a little. "My governesses would have said the same thing. Indeed, one of them did. A dreadful woman. I never was very good at handicrafts, though. I did not have nimble fingers."

"And you with such good penmanship." The tone is teasing, but Norrell is proud of his handwriting, Childermass knows. 

Sure enough, he relaxes still more. "That, unlike the other thing, is something that I care about and take pains about." He shakes his head. "In any case… I came to his house and have remained as you see me ever since. I believe you know all of the issues of records and so forth. You have dealt with them enough."

"You did all that when you were twelve?" Childermass asks. "Not the records - the rest."

"Aye."

"That must have taken some doing. I know very few twelve-year-olds with enough shap to have pulled it off."

Norrell looks pleased. "Well, I had motivation. I wanted to go to school."

"Ah, so that was the main reason for the change?"

"Yes. The sort of things they teach girls are not according to my interests." Norrell sniffs.

"But you did not go to school."

Norrell's face goes flat, the emotion draining out of it. "No. Not for long. That is another tale."

Childermass nods. "And your uncle never suspected, did he?"

Norrell shakes his head. "I am sure he would have done something, and he never did."

"How long were you with him?"

"Six years." Norrell rubs his eyes. "Something along those lines, I believe."

"And he never noticed." Childermass squeezes Norrell's hand. "It is as I say. You are safe, and you will be safe no matter where you are."

Norrell sighs. "I am sorry. I did not mean for this to be so…"

Childermass shakes his head. "If you were concerned, I needed to know. If you do not tell me, I cannot help."

"Aye." Norrell picks his pen back up, clearly disguising his neves and his relief with busywork, for his hands are shaking a little. "Thank you, Childermass."

Childermass nods and goes back to his business.

 

####  June 1800

"You need to go to bed, sir."

"I do not want to. I am restless," says Norrell crossly. "I want to stay up and read."

"And then you'll be cranky in the morning and I'll have to deal with it."

Norrell glares at him.

"Come on, sir," says Childermass. "You know you'll be unhappy tomorrow if you do not get enough sleep."

Norrell puts his book down and fidgets. "There is something," he begins, and then stops, blushing a little.

"Aye?" Childermass sits down in the chair opposite him. "What is the matter?"

"Well - that is to say, would you lay on me?" Norrell fixes his gaze fast to the floor and rubs his hands together.

"Lay on you?"

"Yes. I realize it sounds absurd but I find the pressure can be comforting. It helps me to calm down." Norrell rubs his hands harder. "I usually use a pile of blankets, but the temperature is quite high, and I am afraid the required depth of blankets would be too warm."

"How does the procedure work?" Childermass keeps his tone neutral and his voice gentle, his eyes on Norrell's feet so that Norrell can look up at his face.

Norrell laces his fingers together. "You will lie sort of draped across me and we will sleep like that." 

"All right," says Childermass, "Then we will try it. I do not mind."

When he comes back to lie down with Norrell, he sits down on the edge of the bed. "All right, then. How do you want me?"

Norrell pulls at him until he is draped over him, Childermass slightly lower on the bed so that his head is comfortable situated for breathing.

"There," says Norrell in satisfaction. "Perfect."

The feeling is not unpleasant. It reminds Childermass of his childhood - four children to a tiny narrow bed, curled up like puppies together. Except -

Childermass sits up and strips his shirt off. "Too hot for this," he grumbles. "Again. And in June. Is this going to bother you?"

"No, if you would be more comfortable. And you accuse me of being nesh."

"I am not nesh." Childermass folds his arms. "Difficulty with tolerating the heat is not neshness."

"You must be something. Look at me. I am perfectly comfortable in a nightshirt." Norrell holds his arms out as if to demonstrate this. 

"Well, it is not nesh."

"I shall think of a word. I am sure there must be one somewhere. I will consult Johnson." Norrell pronounces this last with a great gravity and dignity, although Childermass doubts that _A Dictionary of the English Language_  will have the word Norrell is looking for.

"You let me know when you have found it," says Childermass, rolling his eyes.

"I will. I assure you I will. I shall inform you exactly what manner of constitutional aberration you possess." Norrell settles down again.

"One of only a great many, I am sure." Childermass arranges himself across Norrell the way he had been before. "Good night, love."

"Good night, John."

As is common with them, Childermass wakes up from a nightmare halfway through the night to find Norrell already awake. He has rolled over off Norrell, and Norrell is facing him. 

"It is not morning yet," says Childermass sleepily, looking out at the moon that peeps in through the window.

"No. Not yet. You were - you looked upset." 

"Mmm." Childermass rubs his eyes, not quite fully alert yet. "Nightmare again. It's gone now, though. Did I hurt you?" This would not be the first time he has thrashed in his sleep, and if he was on top of Norrell at the time...

"No." Norrell kisses Childermass very carefully, and Childermass responds, bringing one hand lazily up to Norrell's waist. Norrell settles his head in the hollow of Childermass's shoulder and neck and wraps his arms around him. His fingers trace with ticklish softness over Childermass's back. 

Eventually, inevitably, they come to the knotty scars that still crisscross his skin. They stop here and there, feeling out the curves, and then rest on the place between Childermass's shoulders. 

Childermass thinks about Norrell asking him for something so intimate as lying on top of him, and thinks about lying there together, his shirt off, keeping him safe

He says, "You can ask me this time, if you want. I am ready."

"The man who did this to you," says Norrell after a moment, his voice tight. He is engaging the hedgehog method, though for once not at Childermass. Childermass can feel his shoulders stiffening in anger. "Where is he now?"

"Dead." 

"Good." There is a great fierceness in Norrell's voice just then that startles Childermass. "I am glad of it. You are - "

He does not finish the sentence. Childermass hears the echos of _mine_  in his mind and thinks he should be frightened of that. Of the idea of belonging to any one, of feeling bound.

But he has been bound for a long time. He wonders if it happened the moment he stepped into this house, and wonders still more why he does not mind. Perhaps it is the sense of purpose; perhaps it is the safety. Perhaps it is the feeling that Norrell is, equally, his; nobody knows him so well, and few like him enough to try.

Norrell says, "When?"

Childermass clears his throat. "When I was a sailor."

"You were whipped for disobeying?" 

"For being insubordinate. The mate did not care for my mouth." Childermass remembers the crack of the whip. A sunny day, it had been; he still recalls the feeling of the sun on his back as he had knelt there.

"Well, you _are_  terribly insubordinate, but that is certainly not a reason to whip you." Norrell's voice is gentler than his words, and his hands gentler still as they move across Childermass's shoulders.

"Not everyone sees it that way," says Childermass, sighing. "It is long past, in any case."

Norrell is quite for a long while; but for his hands, which are still rubbing slowly and soothingly up and down Childermass's back. 

"I hope you know I would not allow that," he says. "No one would ever be permitted to do that to you. Not if you were still in my service."

"I know," says Childermass.

He wants to tell Norrell then how much it means, too, to know that. How safe Norrell makes him - which is odd, because he is small and fussy and not brave, but somehow being with him makes Childermass feel shielded from the world in a way he had never previously experienced.

He kisses Norrell instead, his hand curved into the dip of Norrell's waist, and feels Norrell's arms tightening around him. And, for just that moment, the nightmares are banished.

  
  


####  November 1800

Something about the autumn always brings the Raven King to mind, Norrell finds. It is a curious phenomenon, particularly because Norrell had in fact given up in the spring. Perhaps that is when the land feels shallowest, when magic feels closest. Perhaps it is the sense of fading and dying. He thinks perhaps it reminds him of _A Faire Wood Withering_  - leaves falling off trees and plants slowly expiring in the fields. 

Or perhaps it is the children leaving carved turnips with ravens on them scattered around the fields in October. There should be none on his land, but they seem to find their way there somehow, possibly from tenants' farms. Even in November some still remain, half-rotted and sinister with their hollow collapsed faces.

He walks across the yard, sighing and poking with his stick at the old turnips and stones in his path. Taking exercise is tedious but necessary in good weather; in wet weather, like now, with the world subsumed in grey, it feels miserable. The only thing to look forward to is the cup of tea when he gets home, and resuming his studies.

Hurtfew is a warm island of light as he approaches it, with candles in the windows lending a golden hue. 

Norrell stomps immediately back up to the library, pausing only to let the footman remove his overcoat and boots. Inside the chill that has suffused his limbs begins to dissipate, but he does not feel cheered. He is still thinking of the little carvings. How mocking they had seemed, reminding him of his failures.

He hates autumn.

When he opens the door and throws himself into his chair, Childermass looks up with an arched brow. "What's got you in such a bleak mood?" he asks, turning a page on his book.

"The blasted Raven King," says Norrell bitterly. "Why children feel the need to carve him into turnips and pumpkins when he has never done any thing for us I do not know."

"I wouldn't say any thing," says Childermass, shuffling papers. "Besides, did you never carve a vegetable with a raven in it as a child?"

"Of course I did." Norrell tastes the sharpness in his own tone and does not make an effort to curb it.

"Then what troubles you so much about it?" 

"The fact that such ideas are still perpetuated. What did the Raven King do for us?"

"Gave us an identity, a separate nationhood," says Childermass, and now he is sharp too. Norrell pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Only to leave us, as if we did not matter." Norrell's breathing is fast. "He brought magic only to take it away and he has left us struggling in his absence. Dependant on him. What sort of king is that? We would have been better with none at all."

"Some don't see it that way, _sir_ ," says Childermass, the last word with the force of obscenity. Norrell recoils and falls silent.

As if to regroup, Childermass turns to stare out the window at the rain-soaked expanse of heath, and Norrell wonders what he is seeing out there. For a long moment there is no sound.

Norrell says, "I have upset you."

"You already know why he is important to me," says Childermass.

Norrell laces his own fingers together and rocks. "I know. But I cannot change my own feelings either."

Childermass nods. "And I am not asking you to. But you cannot ask me to change mine either."

"No. I cannot."

There is another long silence. Then Childermass says, "Why are you so angry?"

Norrell could ask what Childermass means, but they both know he knows already. He says, instead, "He abandoned us."

Childermass inclines his head. "That is not all there is to it. You would not be so angry otherwise."

Norrell bits his fingertips in his nervousness. "I do not know why you think - "

"Because I know you," says Childermass.

The unfortunate thing is that it is quite, quite true. Norrell forgets how well Childermass has studied him these past ten years - has it really been ten years? nearly eleven now that he thinks about it. No body has ever spent so much time with him, nor known him quite so well. It can be very disconcerting.

He closes his eyes for a moment. "And what does that knowledge tell you, exactly, sets this apart from common anger with his abandonment of English magic?"

"Us, you said," says Childermass. "The first time you said England. And now us. How long before we get to _me_?"

"How dare you," says Norrell, but halfheartedly. It is _me_. It has always been _me_. 

Childermass shrugs. "You don't have to tell me if you would rather not, but perhaps it would help me understand."

Norrell thinks for a moment. He is angry enough that John Uskglass would leave and take magic with him, but… He clenches his fists and begins, "When I was young I used to think - I thought he could fix me."

"Fix you?" Childermass tilts his head. "Fix what?"

Norrell makes an irritated gesture. "Me. The...body and the mind, everything."

Childermass's voice is soft for the first time as he says, "You should not feel that you need to be fixed. You are not broken, sir."

Norrell rubs his hands together. He opts to ignore this, because he does not know what to say to it; self-evidently, he _is_. "I thought if I just labored long enough - I called and called him and he never answered. In all the time I asked." 

"He is a king."

"I know that," says Norrell irritably. "Do you think I do not? An old magician and an old king. Not easily impressed. But…" He rubs his hands together again, and says, quietly, "I never saw him, you know. All that time and I never saw him."

Childermass does not speak.

"I wondered what was wrong with me," Norrell says unhappily. "He was supposed to be mine. Why does every one else seem to find him every where they look? Why did he never come to me in a flurry of black wings, or in the darkness of night? Why would he never answer my calls?" 

Childermass looks at him for a long moment. "Maybe it was not you. Maybe he could not."

"But he left," says Norrell. "He did not need to leave. He did not need to take the best part of English magic with him." He is bitter now, almost snarling, but he cannot stop himself. He does not remember ever talking about it with any one, not in this much detail.

Childermass shrugs. "I do not know. Perhaps he did not mean to. He is a man, not a god."

"Then he should have acted like one."

Childermass nods as if in acknowledgement of this point. "People do worship him. 'appen if you're treated like a god you should act like one."

"I would have thought you would defend him." 

"He is my king, and nothing would please me better than for his days to come again, but he did abandon us. It is a fact. We don't know why, and I...am not angry. But I won't make excuses for that."

Norrell takes a long shaky breath. "So you see, now. Do you not think I have a reason?"

"Aye, you do. But you know that I have a reason to be loyal to him."

"I had not thought you the kind to subscribe your loyalty blindly," say Norrell. He knows himself to be still lashing out, but Childermass does not rise to the bait. He only looks at Norrell thoughtfully.

"I owe him my loyalty as I owe it to you," he says. "So I recommend that you accept both."

Norrell wraps his arms around himself. "I know," he says. "It will never be a matter that we agree upon." He is afraid that one day that is what will tear them apart: Childermass's opinion on magic will never be the same as Norrell's, and he wonders if they will survive it.

Childermass seems to guess at this, for he comes over and takes Norrell's face in his hands and kisses his forehead.

"I'm not leaving just yet," he says. 


	6. 1801

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to update in a timely fashion. I didn't have time to say so last week, but thanks to madamedebergamot for reminding me to update! I had the chapters drafted and had forgotten to post them.
> 
> Also this chapter features an incident Childermassacre (blackwatersidhe on tumblr) and I had talked about previously, so it's part his ideas too. It's the bit with the sheep.

####  March 1801

When Childermass goes to help Norrell into his clothes, he finds him still abed.

Childermass raises his eyebrows. "Good morning, sir."

Norrell mumbles something incoherent. He is buried under the covers, the top of his head barely visible. Childermass smiles wearily at the sight of him. 

"Come on, sir," says Childermass. "You need to get out of bed."

"I do not want to," says Norrell.

"What? You never stay in bed during the day. Not unless you're ill." 

"I am not ill. I am just...tired."

Childermass sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. "I do not have the energy to argue you out of it today, sir."

"Well, come join me."

Childermass raises his eyebrow. "Oh aye?"

"I am too tired to object to your impudence, Childermass." Norrell rolls over and looks at him. "I am exhausted. You are apparently the same. I propose that, as no work will be done in any case, we may as well recuperate together."

"Is this a ploy to get me to fetch things for you?" says Childermass, smiling crookedly down at Norrell.

"Don't be absurd." 

He really does sound exhausted, Childermass notes. Nothing significant has happened recently, but Childermass knows full well that these things do not always work that way. Sometimes they can come on at random.

"Alright," he says, laying down to face Norrell. "What's wrong?"

Norrell reaches out his hand, and then seems to remember something. "Is today still an off day?"

Childermass hesitates. "Yes, but not off everything. A bit of touching is all right and I don't mind staying here in bed with you." 

"Good. As to your question, nothing in particular. I believe I am coming down with something. I am tired and I have a headache. You cannot have ridden too hard yesterday; I did not think you went out for longer than an hour or so."

"Nothing like that. Didn't sleep well last night, that's all."

"Ah." Norrell hesitates. "Nightmares?"

Childermass nods. "Ankles are hurting a bit too. Nothing I'm not used to, though."

"Still, it would be better to have a rest."

Childermass gives him a look. "Since when has that ever been your philosophy, sir?"

"Am I not allowed a change of heart?" 

Childermass raises his eyebrows skeptically.

"Point taken," says Norrell, sounding annoyed. "Do I need a reason to spend the day in bed recuperating? Do I need a reason to want company?"

"Company, eh?" says Childermass archly. "Shall I go and fetch James? Perhaps you would like his company better than mine."

"You are being absurd. Really, Childermass." Norrell scoots slightly closer. 

"Really, sir," says Childermass, echoing Norrell's tone. "Why today? Why a rest at all? Why have me here?"

"You are a very suspicious person." 

"I assure you, with the life I have led, I have had to be."

"Hmmm," says Norrell. "Regardless of whether that is the case or not, I do not see why you cannot accept a morning spent in rest."

"Because you never do this sort of thing," Childermass points out for what must be the third time this conversation. "I know you very well."

"Sometimes too well, I feel."

"You hired me."

"You kissed me."

Childermass is almost startled enough to be flustered, but not quite. "You kissed me back," he says.

Norrell tsks. "You are derailing my argument."

"I still do not know what your argument was. Out with it. Why did you want me to stay today? You have been tired before and so have I."

Norrell blinks up at him. "I was thinking of what you said."

Childermass half-smiles. "I say a lot of things."

"Last year, you were saying about going to the city. When I - when I am ready."

"Aye." Childermass wonders if this has to do with perception and being seen as you are again. Well, if Norrell needs reassurance on that score he is willing to deliver.

"I was thinking of that last night," Norrell continues, "And it occurred to me that this sort of thing would be a luxury. That is to say, days spent together in this fashion. And so I thought, since I do not feel well this morning, that the most prudent course of action would be to take advantage of the position I am in." Norrell clears his throat. "So you see."

"Oh," says Childermass. It had not actually occurred to him that Norrell would miss this.

"Particularly with your...fluctuations," Norrell says, shrugging.

Childermass makes a wry face. He says, "I am sorry I cannot always do this. Or that I cannot always kiss you, or…"

"No," says Norrell, patting him on the arm. "Do not worry. I find it comforting, in fact."

"Do you? Why?" Childermass gives Norrell an odd look through his hair. "I thought it was an inconvenience. Surely the unpredictability - "

"Well, admittedly, if you could somehow arrange it on a weekly schedule I would be happier," says Norrell, "But in fact I find that having a few days off is a relief. It is very intense, you see."

"The physical contact?" Childermass props himself up on his elbow. 

"Well, and the emotional requirements." Norrell, still lying on his side, makes a vague gesture. "I have not had an experience with this sort of thing, you see. Not in what you might call a reciprocal manner. So I am still adjusting."

Childermass nods. "I can understand that, I think."

"The sort of feelings - " Norrell shakes his head. "I still find it rather astonishing that I can...feel this way about another person. I thought myself devoid of the ability."

Childermass gives a small wry smile. "So had I, in fact."

"Well, then. You see what I mean. A day off gives me a chance to settle, as it were. The emotional distance is useful." Norrell pats Childermass's back rather awkwardly. "So it is acceptable."

Childermass wordlessly curls up closer to Norrell, only just touching him, his head very near to his shoulder. He does not quite know how to express his feelings; there is a sense of acceptance, of freedom, that he cannot convey through words. If he could he would kiss Norrell now, but that is not possible today, not without discomfort. And yet the space to feel that discomfort is precisely what makes him feel so free.

"Thank you, love," he says instead. 

 

####  August 1801

"Childermass," says Norrell, "There is a sheep in the yard."

Childermass comes over to look. "Several, I see."

"Indeed. I believe there are more coming. Where on earth could they be from? Go and investigate, will you?"

Childermass sighs heavily and disappears down the stairs. A few long minutes later he reemerges, holding his hands out as if to comfort a bull. Norrell believes this to be an incorrect procedure for seeing to sheep, although exactly where he obtained this information he could not say. 

"Childermass!" he yells out of the window.

Childermass yells something back. Norrell takes it for "What?"

"Do not hold your hands out!"

Technically, Norrell should not be able to see Childermass rolling his eyes from here, but he is still quite, quite certain that is what is happening. He drops his hands, at least, but continuous to stand there rather uncertainly watching the sheep mill across the lawn.

Norrell sighs to himself and makes his way down to the door. It is clear that Childermass is not a position to deal with any thing agricultural without some assistance. Technically, Norrell has no real experience with sheep either, having been raised in York until he was twelve and never having been much interested in his uncle's estate after. All the same, he feels that perhaps Childermass will benefit from his assistance.

He pokes his head out the door. "What are they doing, Childermass?"

"Eyeing me, sir," says Childermass. "What are _you_  doing?"

"Helping you."

"Exactly how do you intend to do that? Are you going to come over here and speak to them?"

"Oh! No," says Norrell, making a face. "I might get dirty."

"Of course," says Childermass, rolling his eyes again. "All right, then, sir. What do you propose?"

"Shoo them away."

"Shoo them. That is your advice?"

"Aye."

Childermass gives a put-upon sigh of the sort that he generally employs when he wishes to inform Norrell that he is being ridiculous without actually saying it. "Shoo," he says to the sheep.

The sheep steadfastly ignore him.

"Go on, get gone," Childermass says, making shooing motions with his hands. 

"Get gone," Norrell echos, trying to make some of the same motions from the doorstep.

The sheep continue to graze on Norrell's previously well-groomed lawn, taking no notice.

"It is not working," Norrell says, frowning darkly at the sheep.

"Doesn't seem to be," Childermass says.

"I don't suppose you know anything about sheep."

Childermass gives him a look. "You came out here to help me, sir. Besides, I spent my childhood in the city. Not enough pockets to pick in the country."

"Is that what you were imprisoned for?" Norrell has wondered about this since the fact had come out.

" _Not_  the time, sir," says Childermass.

"Yes, I suppose you do have a point there." Norrell advances carefully a few steps from the doorway. "Go," he says to the sheep. "Leave."

"I think we've established that they do not respond to shooing." 

Both of them look at the sheep for a few moments. A large fluffly specimen looks up at them and then goes back to grazing with apparently no concern for the fact that two members of a superior species are standing in front of it.

"Perhaps if you went among them and shooed them?" Norrell offers.

"Why's it got to be me?"

"Because it is I who pays you, not the other way around."

"You don't pay me enough for this," says Childermass, wading into the morass of wool and bleating. 

"If you feel that you are being unfairly compensated…"

"There is no fair compensation for shooing sheep, sir." Childermass gazes around himself. "How do I go about this? I do not have room to make proper hand motions."

"Yell, I recommend."

"You're the expert, are you?"

"You asked," Norrell points out, edging slightly backward.

Childermass sighs and gives the nearest sheep a prod. "Get gone! Go! Get out!" He speaks at the top of his voice, but again, there is no effect. The sheep he prodded merely turns to give him a look of reproach and moves slightly away from him.

As Childermass is distracted by poking more sheep, Norrell sees a shepherd coming over the hill.  Perhaps at last they will have some sort of resolution to this affair. There is a sheepdog at his side which, at his command runs ahead and begins circling the sheep.

The shepherd does not appear to notice Childermass, Norrell realizes.

Norrell has an uneasy feeling about this. He can see the end result looming as he slowly backs away onto the doorstep.

"Childermass," he begins, but at that point the shepherd begins to do his job. 

The sheep turn and begin to congregate. Right around Childermass.

Childermass swears, using possibly the most creative language Norrell has ever heard him employ for this particular matter. He turns to hurry away, but a stray sheep in front of him trips him. Norrell watches with dismay as he disappears under a sea of white.

"Childermass!" he calls. "Childermass, are you under there?"

There is a sound, but it is very muffled. Norrell strongly suspects that it is more swearing. Norrell wonders if he ought to go and find a rope, but there does not seem to be time for that, because the sheep dog is moving at a rapid pace and the herd will probably soon be gone.

Childermass emerges at last, looking somewhat the worse for wear, as the shepherd takes his flock back over the hill. He comes and sits down beside Norrell on the doorstep. 

"You smell of sheep, Childermass," says Norrell.

"You don't say," says Childermass. 

They look at each other.

Norrell is the first to giggle. He cannot quite manage to restrain himself. He is not even certain what is so very humorous about the situation, but when Childermass joins in it turns into helpless, bewildered laughter.

"Good God," says Norrell, covering his mouth. "What on earth were they doing there?"

"I do not know," says Childermass, "But I will find out."

As it turns out, they belong to Mr Sharp, a tenant on one of the farms. There seems to have been some sort of discontentment. Norrell never does find out the reason, but Childermass says he has fixed it.

Unfortunately, neither Childermass nor Norrell can say "sheep" with a straight face any more.

 

####  October 1801

It seems to Norrell that a great many things begin in his library. Perhaps this is because where he spends so much of his time. 

In this case, Childermass is giving him an update on the news from Manchester, where had been last week. He is doing inside work now to give his legs a rest. With perfect casualness, as if he does not know the effect it will have on Norrell, he says, "The Manchester society has been disbanded, by the way."

"What?" Norrell puts his book down with a thump. "When? Were you involved?"

"Just recently, I believe." Childermass slices another letter open. "And no, for a change this wasn't my doing. It happened all on its own. Got discouraged, as I understand it. "

"With the sort of concepts they were peddling I should thinks so," says Norrell sharply. "Magic never was real!"

"You should appreciate their denouncement of the Raven King, at least. Is that not what you are working towards?"

Norrell sighs. "You know perfectly well that it is not."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"You are being intentionally difficult. Was there a point to this?"

"Well," says Childermass, "Their books. I believe you wanted them."

Norrell leans forward. "Have they anything of value?"

"I do not know for certain. However, I do know that Chetham's Library in Manchester has them in their possession."

"Get the carriage. We are going to leave immediately."

Childermass manages to convince Norrell to wait until the morrow to set out. "Apart from any thing else, I am in no condition to ride and you are not ready to set out."

"You could stay in the carriage," says Norrell, "And I can get ready quickly."

"You know you will only complain if your things aren't packed properly. And I'll be doing well to sit in the coach tomorrow, so take your day and rest."

Grumbling, Norrell acquiesces. Manchester is a very great distance, after all, and so he might as well be prepared.

Childermass eats little on the journey, which Norrell finds somewhat concerning, but he does not mention it because Childermass does not like such things pointed out. It seems to irritate him a great deal.

Norrell wonders with vague hope if perhaps they will come upon an inn which is decent and yet only has one available bed. Sadly, however, this does not occur.

They find their way to the library without incident, although Norrell meanwhile decides that he does not like Manchester very much. It is very loud and has a great deal of smoke belching from unfriendly-looking chimneys. He decides that, as much as he dislikes going to York, it is still better than here. Besides, the people talk with an entirely different accent.

They get to the library, which is a bright spot in the trip; it is very beautiful, arranged to delight Norrell's heart and full of books. Most of them are irrelevant to his interests, but still, the sight of them all laid out pleases him.

"I wish to speak to the person in charge," says Norrell to the man at the desk.

The man raises his eyebrows, but goes and fetches a small bright-eyed man.

"I understand you have recently acquired some books of magic," says Norrell. "I wish to purchase them."

"They are not for sale," says the man apologetically.

Norrell draws himself up indignantly. "I beg your pardon. I will pay a fair price for them."

"I am sure you would, sir, but I cannot sell them to you no matter what you might offer. We purchased them for our collection on magic, and they are the only books of magic we have."

Norrell frowns. "I should hope so."

Childermass gives him a look and mouths 'tact' at him. He asks, "You are certain you cannot sell them?"

"I am afraid not."

"May we see them?"

The man looks shocked. "Oh, no. They are undergoing restoration at the moment, and cannot be seen by any one. However, if you would like to come back in a few weeks or perhaps months, I am sure we could allow you to read them."

Norrell is still spluttering when Childermass gently tugs him out of the library and into the carriage.

"Well! After all that trouble!" Norrell crosses his arms and hunches his shoulders. "Why do you suppose he did that?"

"Ethics, sir."

"Ethics? Ethics of what?"

"Some people do, in fact, want to increase the amount of knowledge in the world for no pay other than the education of the populace."

Norrell considers this. "Can we steal them?"

"No," says Childermass shortly.

Norrell frowns and hunches into the seat. "I do not see why."

"Because either you or I would be arrested, or both, and you would do very poorly in prison and I have no desire to relive my time there."

"Childermass, are you quite all right?"

"Yes. We will try for the books later, sir." Childermass rubs his face. 

"But we have wasted the trip!"

"No, we have discovered that the librarian is not pliable and that we would be best served by coming back later. And you have seen Chetham's library, which must have pleased you."

"Not as much as getting my books would have."

"Not your books," says Childermass. He still does not sound like himself. 

Norrell worries about it all the journey home, which at least distracts him from the pain of losing the books.


	7. 1802

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very early indeed, it being just past midnight GMT, but I'm having another long day tomorrow and I don't want to forget AGAIN.

####  January 1802

James retires early in the year; he is getting old, according to his own word, so his son is to take over.  When the boy arrives, Childermass is waiting for him. 

"Davey," he says, nodding at him. 

Davey's eyes widen. "You know my name?"

Childermass gives him a crooked smile. "Your father talks about you, but more than that I remember you from when you were a boy. Knee high, you were."

Davey shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember you."

"I'm not surprised. You were, what, four when you went with your mam? Down in Leeds, wasn't it?"

"Aye. You must know me, then." Davey relaxes a little. "That's right. A good job, too. She still has it, but she plans to retire soon and come back with Dad. They haven't seen each other nearly enough."

"I can imagine." Childermass takes one of Davey's bags and shews him to his room.

He does quite well at Hurtfew, Childermass thinks after a few trips.

Despite this bright spot, though, his moods have not improved. He cannot remember when it was last this bad. The spell a few autumns ago had been nasty but short; here he has been in a slow decline for over a year now and he is sick of waiting for better.

He decides soon after that it would be better to leave. Hannah is well past settled in, and the household staff is mostly stable, save for footmen, who come and go every few months. And the scullery maid, of course. They cannot keep a scullery maid.

Well, it will be someone else's problem soon. He needs to leave. Norrell will be better off without him.

He packs one night shortly after Davey comes, and prepares to leave. But he cannot go without the things in his desk, so he goes to the library as quietly as he can manage.

"What are you doing?" Norrell is sitting in a chair by the fire, feet curled under him, a book in his lap, staring up at Childermass.

"Leaving," says Childermass, striding past him. He is far too tired to lie, and that in and of itself should be a sign that he is not thinking rationally. But the trouble with irrationality is that it is difficult to spot when you are in the centre of it.

"Why?"

"Because you do not need me," says Childermass. "Some other man of business will serve you just as well and I have a fancy to sail again." This is a lie; he does not know where he is going, but it is not to sea. Or, more accurately, not directly.

"No," says Norrell. "I have not sacked you yet."

"Consider me to have resigned." He reaches for his memorandum-book and begins digging through his desk.

"No," says Norrell again. 

"You can't refuse a resignation."

"I believe I just did."

Childermass pauses, stares back at him.

"Besides," Norrell says, "You have not given notice. You are required to give two week's notice before you leave. That is in your contract. If you leave now, I shall not give you any back pay or references."

"I don't _care_ ," says Childermass. His shoulders are shaking now, although he does not know why. This is logical, not emotional, and why should he feel this way? "Why won't you let me go? Why must you keep me here?"

Norrell blinks at him. "It is in your contract," he says, rather unconvincingly.

Childermass pushes his things haphazardly into his bag and slams the desk drawer. "Why won't you give up on me?" he demands.

Norrell seems to stop breathing for a moment. Then, as if choosing his words carefully, he says, "I find you too useful."

"Useful? Useful. Sometimes I cannot even ride. Half the time I can't even - " He takes a shaky breath - "I cannot even do my personal duties as well as my professional ones. Sometimes I cannot even get out of bed. Sometimes I cannot let you touch me - "

"And how often do I have days where you cannot touch me?" Norrell's voice is soft, and this is somehow worse than anger. Childermass tries to square his shoulders, finds his strength is running out, and curls in on himself instead.

"That is different," he says, because he cannot think of any thing else to say.

"How so?"

"I do not know." Childermass takes another breath; they feel like they have to be rationed right now or else he will run out, or perhaps as if he has to remind himself to exhale and inhale. He slumps down into his chair.

Norrell sighs. He gets up and comes over, kneels down beside Childermass, which Childermass knows he finds objectionable on his knees. That he is still doing it must mean something.

"I do not think you are useless," he says. "I do think you very foolish if you believe I would simply allow you to walk away without any word."

"How did you know?" Childermass asks. "You don't notice things like this."

Norrell shrugs. "I could tell you were plotting something, and you have been staying out for a very long time lately, and eating very little, which you always do when you are...worse. And I was up tonight. I heard your footsteps above me and I thought you might be planning to leave. You would go at night, of course. It is much easier that way."

Childermass blinks back the sudden unclarity in his vision and breathes out. "It is," he says, "When your employer isn't nosy and interfering."

"I have a right to ensure my servants do not break their contract," says Norrell composedly.

Childermass breathes a few more times; the action still requires concentration. "You won't let me go," he says.

"I may sack you, but I will not have you leaving on some idiotic whim. Really, John, what were you thinking? Useless. What nonsense." Norrell reaches out, very carefully and slowly, giving Childermass a chance to move away; Childermass lets the hand make contact with his face, pull him forward. Norrell rests his forehead against Childermass's. "Where were you going to go?"

"Don't know," says Childermass. "The bridge, maybe."

Norrell pulls away and looks at him seriously.

Childermass shakes his head. "It was a half-formed thought. Don't you worry about it."

"My most trusted servant confesses that he is contemplating throwing himself into the river, something he had assured me he would not wish to do incidentally, and I am supposed to remain unworried?" Norrell tuts.

"I changed my mind." Childermass looks at the arm of the chair, trying to regain his lost composure. _Bit late for that now_ , he thinks.

"In which direction?" says Norrell, looking worried again.

"I'm here, aren't I?" He is snapping now, but he is too exhausted to filter it, and Norrell does not seem to mind.

"Good." The softness is back, and he cannot take it; he rises, rubs his hands over his face.

"I need to sleep," he says.

"Yes," says Norrell. "You're unbearable when you haven't slept."

Childermass huffs something that may perhaps be a laugh, although even he is not sure. "Very well then."

Norrell hesitates for a moment. "Would you...care to come back to mine? It is likely to be softer and you will fall asleep faster."

Childermass closes his eyes for a moment. Breath in, breath out, he reminds himself.

"That would be fine," he says.

Norrell takes his hand as they travel through the halls.

Odd, how safe that makes him feel.

  
  
  


####  July 1802 

"We're holding a birthday party for Lucy in a week," says Hannah as soon as he walks into the hall, "And you're to come."

Childermass looks at her in surprize. "All right. You are quite sure she wants me there?"

"Yes. Positive. She'll be terribly disappointed if you don't come."

Childermass shrugs. "Very well, if it would please her."

"Do you think Mr Norrell might like to come?" Hannah asks. "He's been all right. Besides, it might help her get over her fear of him."

Childermass gives her a look. "Or it might spoil her birthday entirely. Besides, best if he doesn't know about it."

"You don't think he would stop it, do you?" Hannah furrows her brow.

"No, I don't think he would care enough, but still." Despite everything, Childermass operates on the principle of letting one's master know as little as possible about one's activities. It is safer that way.

Hannah gives him a speculative look. "It could be fun."

"He doesn't even like parties, Hannah."

"Just ask him, all right? Susan says she'll make his favorite cakes."

"You in on it too, are you?" he says to Susan, a thin, pale, quiet woman who lurks in the corner dealing with Norrell's touchy digestion and tendency to be irregular about his meals.

She only smiles at him. 

"She likes him too," says Hannah. "We all do."

"Except those that leave after a month," Childermass points out.

"Or less. He's an acquired taste." Hannah shrugs. "The way I see it, at least he's not bothering the maids at their duties or in their beds. That's more than you can say for some. Even if he is grumpy as the devil."

Childermass hides a smile, both because this is true and at the mental image of Norrell's reaction to this description. 

"Ask him," says Hannah. "He spends all his time in his library, never interacting with a soul."

"You can't mother him, Hannah, he's forty-five years old."

"I'm not mothering." Hannah crosses her arms. "I just think Lucy would like it, and it would do him good to be out of the study for a change."

"He won't agree."

"Ask him," says Hannah again, and puts on her polishing-apron.  

Childermass asks him.

"They're having a birthday party for Lucy belowstairs, and they want to know if you would come."

"What?" says Norrell. "To a birthday party for a maid? Why? Isn't she the one that is terrified of me?"

"Aye, that's the one. I told Hannah it was a bad idea." Childermass shrugs. "But she would not leave me alone until I asked."

"You really ought to learn to tell her no," says Norrell, writing an annotation on a slip of paper and sticking it into a book. "She is growing incorrigible."

"She's always been incorrigible," Childermass says darkly. "She has mellowed. You should have seen her at ten."

"I do not think I would have wanted to." Norrell dips his pen and scratches out another annotation.

Childermass leaves to go and see to some business on the estates. When he returns and makes it back to the library to see if Norrell needs anything fetched on the next trip out, Norrell says, "It seems I am going to the party after all."

Childermass stares at him. "Hannah got to you?"

"She said it would be very kind and generous of me." Norrell stares with a puzzled look at the wall. "I do not see what is so kind about going to a party. I do not see what the point of me being there is."

"Hannah has her own reasons." 

Norrell sighs and returns to reading. Childermass thinks, with amusement, that not very many employers would put up with this sort of thing from a housemaid. But Norrell is probably used to impudence from Childermass, and he hates change. He supposes servants here are given a great deal more leeway with regards to proper behavior provided they do not threaten Norrell's books or interfere with his studies. If they can ignore being sacked approximately once a fortnight for entirely petty reasons and then staying out of sight until the offense is forgotten, of course.

The day before the party, Norrell asks, "Am I required to bring a gift? I do not wish to set some sort of precedent where people will be inviting me to their parties and expecting some sort of present. I cannot be attending birthdays for every one. It would be exhausting."

Childermass hides a smile. "Give her money, a small amount, and give it to her discreetly."

"You give it to her," says Norrell. "I shall give it to you to-night."

"As you wish, sir."

Childermass puts the money in an envelop and slips a small note inside. He could mimic Norrell's handwriting, but that would only cause trouble, so instead he writes _from our employer_  in his own writing.

The party is in the servant's hall, of course. Childermass wonders if Norrell has ever been down there. But Norrell descends with relatively good grace, much to everyone's general relief.

The instant Lucy spots him, she hides behind Dido. Childermass leans over and whispers in Norrell's ear, "That's her - the lass with the birthday."

"I know that," Norrell whispers back, annoyed. "She's the little one. Do you think I do not know the name of my own maids?"

Childermass, who rather had thought that, shrugs. He hands Norrell the envelope. "Give this to her."

"I told you to!"

"And I am telling you that it would be far better for you to do it."

Norrell sighs and takes the envelope. He shuffles over to Lucy and hands it to her. She watches him with wide eyes and takes it as if it will explode. "Is it a dismissal?" she asks, her voice barely loud enough to be heard.

"It is a present," Norrell mutters, and flees back to Childermass.

Lucy opens it and her eyes grow yet wider when she sees. "Thank you, sir," she whispers. Childermass is not sure if Norrell can hear her from the other side of the room, but he nods.

After that, the rest of the servants seem more at ease. Davey puts a glass of claret in Norrell's hands - Norrell's own claret, but then, Childermass is certain he will not notice - and claps him on the back, startling him greatly. Susan puts one of her little cakes down in front of him, saying, "I know you appreciate them, sir."

Norrell grimaces at her in what Childermass thinks is meant to be a smile.

By the time his claret is finished, Norrell's hand has been shaken three times and he is looking distinctly shaken himself. But the servants are laughing all around him, and Lucy is finally at her ease, so perhaps Hannah had her point. Childermass is proud, then, of the household he lives in: proud that they have a master who leaves them alone, proud that they have a collection of fellow-servants who watch out for each other.

Norrell leaves soon after, begging an early bedtime.

"He didn't stay very long," Susan observes. 

"Probably just as well," says Dido. "That's the proper way. You grace the household with your presence and then leave before you can say anything - "

"- incredibly stupid," Hannah finishes, and the two of them giggle. Childermass rolls his eyes.

"See?" says Hannah, patting Childermass on the shoulder. "Was that so awful?"

"Not as bad as I expected." Childermass makes a face. "I suppose, as usual, I have to concede that you were right."

"Of course I was," says Hannah, and he thinks, foolishly, that perhaps he will hear the end of it.

And then a speculative look enters her eye.

"Do you think he'd come to a Christmas party?" she asks, and Childermass groans.

 

####  September 1802

In July, the Suggitts invite themselves to Norrell's house again.

Or, to be more accurate, technically Norrell invites them. Under duress.

"Remember what I said about not making unnecessary enemies," says Childermass.

"It will not aid me in my cause," says Norrell with a sigh. "Really, I do not see why this means I have to have that plague of a man in my house again."

"That plague of a man and his wife. She tempers him at least."

"Not enough," grumbles Norrell. He remembers very well precisely how much trouble the man had caused last time, scolding Childermass and disrupting his household. "If he tries to dictate my household affairs I shall not be responsible for what happens," he says darkly. "I would hope he has learned."

"Some men never do," says Childermass, "But heed me a moment, sir. We will have to be very careful."

"What?" says Norrell, pulling his book, which is across the table by Childermass, towards him.

"With the...us," Childermass says, gently holding onto the book. "With our - goings on."

"Oh!" says Norrell. He can feel himself beginning to redden which is, of course, absurd. "Yes, of course. I can only imagine what he would say if he found out. The legal ramifications alone."

"Indeed," says Childermass dryly, and lets the book go.

When the Suggitts arrive again, Mr Suggitt gives Childermass a dirty look. "I see you have not had a change of staff," he says.

"In fact I have," says Norrell, deliberately contrary. "I have had many. For instance, I cannot keep ahold of a footman. Dreadful thing, really. I do not know why they are so reluctant to stay. I pay them well enough."

Suggitt gives him a suspicious glare and sweeps off to his room.

Mrs Suggitt pauses to nod at him, then says, "Really do not mind him. He gets fancies into his head." Then she, too, sweeps off.

The issue comes the next morning in the dining-room at breakfast, before the Suggitts have alighted, when Childermass sticks his hands on Norrell.

"They are warm," says Norrell in surprize, turning to face him. "I cannot remember the last time your attempt failed so badly."

"That's the whole point, sir," says Childermass. "Such a rare occasion must be documented. For once, you do not have the opportunity to shriek like a teakettle and have my ear off."

"I do not shriek like a teakettle," says Norrell indignantly. "Furthermore any noises I make are entirely justified."

"Justified, perhaps. Tea-kettleish, certain."

Norrell gives him a disapproving look. "You are very impudent, you know."

"Indeed," says Childermass, raising an eyebrow. "And have you any intention of trying to correct this?"

"It would be a futile endeavor. I have labored at length to correct your many faults, Childermass, but I have come to the conclusion that it is impossible."

Childermass is smiling his crooked smile, which frequently causes Norrell to become slightly flustered. "Aye, sir," he says, "I am entirely unsuited for service."

Norrell looks at him for a moment. The effect of the smile is quite extraordinary, and he is still less than an arm's length away. He moves a little closer and Childermass moves to reach for him - 

The door creaks. Childermass drops his arm and says, with perfect calm, "Is your cravat to your satisfaction now, then?"

"What?" says Norrell, brow furrowing. And then the Suggitts enter.

"Mr Norrell," Mrs Suggitt says. "I do hope we are not terribly late."

"No," says Norrell, aware that he is slightly red and still somewhat flustered from the encounter with Childermass. 

"Ah, excellent."

Breakfast is a torment. Childermass is sitting beside Norrell as usual, one long-fingered hand on the table resting too near Norrell's, and the proximity of that hand keeps distracting Norrell terribly, reminding him of what they had been interrupted at, which flusters him more. Mrs Suggitt keeps inquiring after his health. 

"A small seasonal ailment," he murmurs. "Nutmeg and lemon will cure it soon enough."

Unexpectedly, this leads her to talk more than usual; she offers a few home remedies for various illnesses and then lapses back into silence, much to Norrell's relief.

Suggitt, however, keeps eyeing Childermass. It makes Norrell very uneasy. Fortunately, they manage to get through the meal with no interruptions or arguments, but afterwards Suggitt stops him and speaks in a low voice.

"Your servant," he says, "Looks at you in a very odd way."

"Does he?" says Norrell, keeping his face impassive. 

"Keep an eye out."

Norrell wonders resentfully what Suggitt thinks he is doing interfering with another man's affairs. Fortunately, it is time for him to retire to the library.

Alas, this is not the end of the matter. Norrell is hoping for a few moments alone with Childermass to finish what he started, but at the midday meal, Norrell reluctantly emerges from his study to eat. Ordinarily, he has a tray, but he cannot leave his guests to dine alone, no matter how much he might wish it.

Childermass does not come. "I think you'll find the meal more amicable without me," he says when Norrell hears the bell.

"Not got your shadow?" says Suggitt cooly when Norrell enters the room.

"My man of business, no." Norrell shrinks nervously back into his seat.

"Have you checked his credentials? You're quite certain he is safe?"

Norrell gives the man a look. "He is my servant. I can manage my own affairs."

Suggitt sniffs. "Of course you can, but one can never be too careful. Unnaturals are everywhere."

Norrell flinches, then panics slightly because he has flinched. Is this a giveaway? 

But Suggitt does not, at least, seem to notice this. He makes a few more pointed comments before Norrell manages to flee, but at least this refuge lasts for the rest of the day, because his stomach is far too upset for dinner what with the change in routine and the quizzing.

When Childermass is helping Norrell into his bedclothes he says, "We'll have to be more careful than that if this happens again. It was nearly very bad."

"I know," says Norrell, feeling that it is already very bad. "He kept asking me questions and it was horrible. But you distracted me."

This, unusually, causes Childermass to laugh out loud. "Did I indeed? How so?"

"Sticking your hands on me. Standing close to me. All sorts of things. You caused me any amount of trouble.You might at least give me some compensation now that we are alone." Norrell frowns.

Childermass is smiling again, that wicked sideways smile. He leans forward and kisses Norrell, first at the corner of his mouth where the frown dips down, and then properly on the lips, a slow lingering kiss full of intent.

"That's all I have got time for now," he says, when he steps back. "The rest of it you can have when they leave tomorrow morning."

Norrell grudgingly goes to bed on the strength of that promise. 

Fortunately, the next morning after his guests leave, Childermass quite delivers.


	8. 1803

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this hastily at school because I forgot to draft the chapter last night and have meetings aGAIN so let me know if there are any formatting issues.

#### February 1803

Childermass has finally, _finally_  managed to solve the footman issue. Or, at least, it seems so. Young Lucas is a quiet, steady lad, who instantly gets along well with Davey. He welcomes him into the house that first day and Lucas immediately looks at the longcase clock and says, "It could use adjusting, couldn't it?"

He claps his hand over his mouth. "Sorry. Sorry, new here, shouldn't do that."

Childermass waves towards the clock. "It'll be your job anyway. Go on, then."

Lucas opens the clock and adjusts it carefully, until it says the right time.

This shews the sort of attention to detail that Childermass appreciates greatly. If Lucas can survive Norrell in full change-resistant mode, he thinks, he will probably stay for years.

Sure enough, Norrell is his usual suspicious, petulant self for the first few weeks. He fusses at Lucas over his job caring for Norrell's wig and clothes, which reminds Childermass of the neckcloth knot debacle when he himself had first started. It is extreme enough that Lucas feels the need to ask Childermass about it.

"Am I going to lose my position?" he asks, sounding as though he is not sure he minds if he does.

"No. He'll settle down, Lucas. If you don't mind putting up with it for a few weeks, you will find this a very amiable place."

"Well, pay's good enough," says Lucas rather doubtfully, but he does not resign.

Norrell complains about it to Childermass, of course.

"The lad is incompetent," he says. "He leaves my wig out on its stand nearly every night, Childermass."

"You have gone without footmen for long enough that you ought to be used to that," Childermass replies.

"Yes, but I refuse to be made to tolerate it with one in the house."

Childermass merely rolls his eyes. In theory, Norrell ought not be able to see this from where he is sitting, but by this time he knows Childermass well enough to predict him.

"Do not make faces at me. Sack him," he says.

"Give him a fortnight more, sir."

"That's what you said last fortnight," Norrell protests, but he leaves the subject then.

The real issue, however, does not come until some days after that, by which time Norrell has nearly got used to Lucas. His complaints have died down significantly to an occasional muttered comment about young untutored boys - Lucas is twenty and had served as underfootman in a house previously, so Childermass feels that this is a sign that Norrell is running out of things to complain about - and a few sideways glares.

But, well… It had started in the closet. And with the fact that Lucas's new duties involve tidying away things in the library, which he takes to with admirable fortitude given how uncanny every one except Childermass and Norrell seem to find it. And the fact that one particular closet, roomier than the others, has been repurposed on occasion for the sake of privacy.

The point is that Norrell is somewhat shy about extensive kissing in the library during the daytime. Or, rather, when he remembers to be he is. This is frequently forgotten in the heat of the moment, but with a new face around, Norrell is being more careful.

So when Childermass bends over him and kisses his forehead, and when Norrell leans up to return it with a kiss on his mouth, and when Childermass cups Norrell's face in his hands, still upside-down…

"Closet," says Norrell just a touch breathlessly. "Not here."

Childermass takes both his hands and helps him up. When the door is shut behind them Norrell looks him up and down, gives him a small approving nod, and then goes up on his toes to kiss him.

Childermass does not think he will ever grow jaded to the feeling of Norrell tugging him down by the collar, impatient and artless with it. He will never cease to enjoy the soft scruffiness of Norrell's hair when his wig or cap is gently removed  - with little to no protest - and Childermass's hands are in it, running through it. The simultaneous sense of exchanged power and surrender, the closeness, the -

The door opens.

Childermass and Norrell break apart, though not quite soon enough, apparently, because Lucas is standing in the doorway looking as though someone has hit him over the head with a large piece of wood.

Oddly enough, Childermass's first thought is _there goes another bloody footman._  It is quickly overtaken by concern for Norrell, who has gone a very bright red and is spluttering.

"I was trying to put the candles away," says Lucas in a rather stunned voice. "I will do it later, shall I?"

"I think that would be wise," says Childermass, closing the door again.

There is the sound of another door slamming shortly after that. It seems that Lucas has found some other things to occupy his time.

Norrell says immediately "I shall sack him."

"Do not do that, sir."

"Why not?" Norrell frowns, and then his eyes widen. "But he could tell - oh, he could tell. This is a disaster, Childermass, what shall we do?"

"It is not a disaster and you do not need to sack him. I do not think he is likely to cause trouble," says Childermass, catching hold of Norrell's arm. "It would be hypocritical of him."

Norrell pauses. "What?" he says. "Do you mean - "

"Yes, I do." Childermass holds Norrell's inquiring gaze steadily.

"Oh," says Norrell, looking annoyed. "You might have told me before."

"To what point and purpose? I should think you of all people would respect his privacy. I only tell you now to reassure you."

"I suppose so," says Norrell, "But how do you know?"

"If you do not think I check every thing about a servant before they come here…" In fact, Childermass deliberately seeks out people with unusual proclivities. Partly this is to ensure Norrell's safety and indeed his own; partly it is because, often, they have nowhere else to go.

"No, of course." Norrell waves. "I trust your judgement on household matters, that is why I appointed you my man of business."

"Then do not fret any more."

But I have been humiliated, Childermass! How can I ever look him in the face again!"

"It will pass." Childermass puts one finger under Norrell's chin and gently lifts it; Norrell closes his eyes in anticipation of the kiss, which Childermass lays softly square on his mouth. "I will take care of it."

After that, of course, it is only a matter of talking to Lucas, which he does that evening just before supper.

"About what you saw," he says, catching his arm and speaking in a low voice.

Lucas flushes. "I didn't see nothing," he says. "Don't you worry about that, I'm not a gossip."

"That's not what I'm worried about, lad," says Childermass. "I know you're steady. I just wanted to be sure that you do not mind."

"Mind what, that you're friendly with the master?"

Childermass fights the urge to do something extremely foolish, like deny it or downplay it, but it is rather late for that. "Aye. I understand you might not be comfortable with such things. But I assure you, he does not play favorites and I am not an unfair man."

"Oh, that," says Lucas, grinning. "Don't worry. I didn't think you were that type. None of my business what you do with your spare time, sir, and nobody else's neither."

Childermass inclines his head. "Thank you, Lucas. You've done your work well so far and I hope you will be staying with us."

Lucas gives a nod in return. "That is my intention, sir, if you'll have me."

"Oh, one more thing. If you can stay out of Mr Norrell's view for the next few days until he forgets about this little incident…" Childermass rolls his eyes slightly, as if to say, _gentlemen and their fancies_ , for Lucas might be more amicable that way.

"Of course."

So, whatever else the cost of their little encounter may have been in terms of wear and tear on Norrell's heart and Childermass's nerves, at least they need not look for another footman.

  


#### May 1803

"I thought you would like to know that our country is at war," says Childermass, dropping _The Times_  down onto Norrell's desk.

Norrell blinks at him, confused, as he picks up the newspaper. "With whom?"

"Who do you think? The usual suspect."

"Ah. This is about Buonaparte? I did not know that had risen to such extremes."

"That is because you do not keep up with the news, sir."

"Well of course I do not." Norrell peers over the newspaper at Childermass. "What do I have you for? Why should I look inside a newspaper?"

Childermass smirks at this.

Norrell peers at the newspaper through his spectacles, reading the story. It is, indeed, an official war, apparently. It seems sometimes as though they had just finished the last one. Had they not been involved in something related to the revolution? There are, he thinks, far too many revolutions about these days.

"I see," he says finally. "Why did you shew this to me?"

"I thought you might find it interesting. In any case, it would be a disgrace for you not to know we were at war should someone bring the subject up."

"I suppose it would." Norrell puts the paper down. He says, rather abruptly, "I want to help, Childermass."

"Help with what? The war?"

"Yes," says Norrell. It had only occurred to him as he said it, in fact. He watches Childermass's face for any sign of laughter very carefully but there is none, only thoughtfulness.

"And why do you say that, sir? What way would you like to help?" Childermass sits down in a chair across from the desk and leans forward.

"I do not know. Magicians of old used to be involved in battles - perhaps I could assist somehow with troops or supplies or some such thing. The French do not have a magician, do they?" Norrell is not a battle-magician, and he knows very few offensive spells, but there ought to be some way he can help.

"Not to the best of my knowledge," says Childermass.

"Well, no one's knowledge is better than yours, so I suppose they do not," says Norrell, half musing to himself. Childermass gives him an odd look, but he ignores it. "It would upset them, do you not think it would upset them?"

"Aye, sir, I think it would. It is a good plan, but how will you go about introducing it to people?"

Norrell frowns. "I suppose I shall write a letter to Parliament offering my help."

"They will think you have lost your reason, sir. And they have no reason to trust that you are not a charlatan. They will not listen to a letter."

"Well? What do you propose, then?"

"Cultivate friendships with some great men." Childermass opens his hands. "You get into their houses and into their favor, they introduce you to gentlemen in Parliament, there you are."

"How on earth do I do that?" Norrell has not the least idea of how to begin a friendship with someone, much less someone he has never spoken to.

"Go to dinner parties. Mingle."

Norrell gives him a horrified look.

"You will have to have something," says Childermass.

"Sometimes else," says Norrell.

Childermass comes back with something he very next day. "Public lectures," he says, startling Norrell terribly when he sits down at the breakfast table. He technically does not have formal permission to be there, but Norrell does not care one way or the other for small formalities of this kind, particularly when there is important news.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," says Norrell. "Public lectures on what?"

"The history of magic, sir. It is said that there is a lecture tour being formed. If you wish to involve yourself in it."

Norrell sniffs. "There are far too many people lecturing on the history of magic already. And getting it entirely wrong, I might add."

"Hence why you could present a better view to the public. Who better to lecture on magic than a practical magician? Correct misconceptions and inform as to the proper facts? And then, once people know who you are, we will go to some ministers and offer to help. With a good reputation, you cannot fail." Childermass folds his arms and looks at Norrell.

"It is a foolish idea. You know that I am not a good speaker." This has often troubled Norrell when he wishes to tell people about magic.

"We will plan your lectures out to be interesting. And, if you like, we can find someone who will help you speak with more ease."

"No," says Norrell. "I do not approve of that at all. Some shiftless fellow in my house, telling me that to reach a crowd I need to do this or that or the other?"

Childermass shrugs.

"Besides which, that would involve a great deal of people looking at me, and I do not like the idea of a great deal of people looking at me."

"You have to get involved somehow," says Childermas, sipping his coffee. "I do not do this to trouble you, but if you do not wish to give some sort of demonstration of magic, there must be some other way."

"Public lectures," says Norrell, disbelievingly. "And what would I lecture on? Specifics. Do not simply tell me the history of magic again." He knows perfectly well what Childermass is like when he is in the mood to be unhelpful.

Childermass shrugs. "You are the magician," he says. "Who am I to tell you what topics are fit for public consumption?"

Norrell feels that there is something vaguely sarcastic in Childermass's dry expression and tone of voice, but he cannot quite pin it down. "I suppose you are right about that," he concedes.

"And then we could get someone to help you with your speeches, as I say, and when people ask you questions, you could explain."

"This is another one of your schemes for getting me out and into the world." Norrell narrows his eyes. "You know I do not want to be out or into the world."

"I know, sir, but it will be difficult to do much for England here in Hurtfew."

Norrell sighs. It seems a great trial that he cannot, in fact, bring back English magic from the comfort of his fireside. Why it is so very necessary that he go and present himself to be looked at and asked questions of is a question that troubles him greatly. Supposing people see his fits? Supposing people, regardless of Childermass's assurances, see past his clothes and ask questions about his past?

"If you do not want to do what I have suggested, what do you want to do?" Childermass's voice is gentle now, not pressing but asking, and Norrell finds himself unconsciously calming under the power of it.

"I do not know," he says. "I do not know."

"There are opportunities. If you will seize them, sir, I will help you."

Norrell blinks up at him, uncertain himself. What does he want? He wants to tell someone, anyone who does not already know, that he can do magic,

"Maybe," he says finally. "Next time an opportunity arises, as you say, I will seize it."

And for now, Childermass seems satisfied with that.

 

#### November 1803

Nothing good ever seems to happen in York. Norrell has fond childhood memories of the Minster and the statues in it, of the house in town that he had lived in with his parents for the first twelve years of his life, but any time he comes back something dreadful or gloomy or otherwise disruptive seems to occur.

In this case, he has come up to see about some new shoes. His old ones are terribly worn, and as much as it annoys him to have to come to town, it cannot be put off any longer.

Childermass has gone off to see to Thoroughgood, a man who sells books and curiosities and whom Childermass thinks of some use. "A chatter," he says, "But a man with connexions."

Finished at the cobblers, he asks Davey, "Where shall I go for food?"

"There is a pub very closely that serves a reasonable luncheon," says Davey. "Will that suit you, sir?"

Norrell agrees, for even though he finds the atmosphere of pubs very disagreeable, he is very hungry.

He is quietly eating some bread and cheese in a corner when he is interrupted by a small man with a great bristling set of muttonchops above him.

"Gilbert Norrell, isn't it?" he says, looming over Norrell somehow despite his smallness.

"May I ask who is inquiring?" Norrell peers anxiously at the face. It does not seem familiar."

"I take it you do not remember me? Well, it is a long time, and I have grown many grey hairs." The man laughs. "Edison is the name. Daniel Edison."

Norrell starts when he hears the name, which he does remember, even if he does not remember the face. The fag-master at St Peter's, of course.

"Yes," he says finally, "I recall."

"Old Peterites, eh?"

"Not for very long," says Norrell stepping back. "You will excuse me - "

"Do you not want to catch up? Heard you got yourself a very fine inheritance. Envious of that, myself. Still waiting for my parents to die, and at my age." He sighs. "Well, so it goes."

Norrell considers trying to make conversation, in hopes that the man will go away, but he does not have the strength.

"What are you doing with yourself, then, Gilbert? A fine scholarly mind, I recall you had."

Norrell thinks, _yes, and you tormented me for it._  "I…I study magic," he says, resisting the urge to rub his hands together.

"A magician, eh? Well, that's a profession to tax the brain!" He claps Norrell on the shoulder, and Norrell flinches away from it, from the remembered threat of violence.

Davey steps between them, and in the moment Norrell feels that he is significantly more like an angel of mercy, or perhaps a knight sent to rescue Norrell, than a coachman. "Sorry, sir, is everything quite all right?"

"I… I wish to go home, Davey," says Norrell.

"Aye sir. I will see to the coach. Mr Childermass should be back soon; we will go and pick him up."

Norrell nods. "Thank you, Davey See to the horses, will you?"

To Edison he says, "I beg your pardon sir, but I really must be going. I fear it will be dark soon and I have a great deal of business to conduct."

"With an estate like yours, I should think so!" Edison claps him on the shoulder again and he shakes his hands discreetly as low as he can. Norrell hurriedly exits the pub and waits anxiously by the door until Childermass finds him.

"I take it you are ready to leave," he says, looking at him.

"Aye," says Norrell, rocking onto his toes. "Where is Davey with the coach?"

Davey trots up not very much later and Childermass helps Norrell into the carriage, hands gentle on him.

"Come now," he says. "What's all this about?"

"A man stopt me in the pub," says Norrell.

"Ah. Met an old friend, did you?" Childermass asks dryly.

"He was _not_ my friend," says Norrell rather shakily, realizing several moments too late that Childermass had probably not meant that literally.

Childermass leans across and takes Norrell's hands, steadying him. Norrell takes a deep breath.

"I saw someone I knew at school. He tried to talk to me. I did not wish to talk to him. Davey interfered - fortunately. Remind me to give him some sort of bonus."

Childermass almost smiles. "I'm sure he'll appreciate that, sir. Are you all right?"

"You see, this is why I do not care to leave Hurtfew," says Norrell. "Look at the sort of things that happen."

"Was he unpleasant to you?"

"No," says Norrell, fidgeting with Childermass's hands on his own. "No, he was perfectly pleasant, this time, it is only that he - he - "

"Reminded you of things you had rather not be reminded of." Childermass laces Norrell's fingers with his.

Norrell nods.

"If this is the sort of reaction your school left on you, I see why you were not there for very long."

Norrell lets go of Childermass's hands and rubs his own together slowly. "I felt I could learn better on my own," he says.

"Mm. Without being beaten, you mean." Childermass's voice is very quiet.

"Yes. I felt that it was a significant distraction from my studies." Norrell shivers.

"I suppose we each have our marks," says Childermass, and Norrell looks up at him suddenly, remembering his scars.

"I suppose we do."

Childermass leans over and kisses Norrell's forehead. "You are safe now, sir," he says. "I shall not let any one mark you again."

Norrell closes his eyes. He knows what he wants to say, but he is just too embarrassed to speak it aloud, so he says it just above the edge of hearing.

"Nor I you," he whispers.


	9. 1804

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we're close to the end, I'll probably post a double update next week, thus wrapping up this fic, and then I'll continue with the London fic.

####  May 1804

It starts innocuously enough.

It starts with Norrell reading the newspaper, something he does approximately three times a year when he takes a fancy to see what is in them. Generally, Childermass keeps an eye on the local papers and the London one; it is easier to keep up with the doings of the country that way. Occasionally, Norrell steals one off the desk to look at if the book he is looking at is particularly vexing to him, or if he is waiting for something.

In this case it is a local newspaper, relating goings-on in York.

"A hanging," says Norrell absently.

"Mm," says Childermass, who is going through The Times at the moment.

"Apparently the man stole ten guineas. A shocking amount."

Childermass only vaguely hears the words. There is an article about magicians but, he realizes as he reads it, street-magicians only. _Yellow-curtained tents_ , he thinks in Norrell's voice, hearing that vinegary tone that Norrell reserves for the numerous things he has a particular distaste for. He almost smiles.

Norrell tuts. "Perhaps that is just as well."

That takes a moment to sink in past his thoughts; for a moment he thinks Norrell means it is just as well that magicians are taking over the docks in London. That cannot be right. "What is just as well, sir?" he asks.

"The hanging," says Norrell impatiently. "Have you not been paying attention?"

Childermass understands then and feels cold. "Was it?" he says.

Norrell looks up at Childermass. "Well, he was a repeat offender, surely? And if that is the case perhaps the town is better off."

"You don't know what his life was like," says Childermass. "Perhaps he had his reasons. The law is too harsh, when it comes to things like that."

"Yes, but ten guineas? That's a quarter's wages! That is far beyond what he would need to survive day to day." 

"You are assuming that he could find a job. Supposing that all he could do was theft? Supposing he had debts?"

Norrell makes a face. "Debts can be avoided. They are the province of unwise men."

"And poor men who have no alternative. Besides, having been unwise in the past does not mean he deserves to die in the present." That is something Childermass believes very firmly, or else there is no hope for any one. 

"All the same there is no excuse for thievery." Norrell says the word with distaste.

"Isn't there? When you're starving? When you've nowhere else to turn? When it's that or die?" Childermass leans forward and stares Norrell in the eye.

Norrell looks away. "Well - "

"You don't know what it's like, _sir_." Childermass emphasizes the word 

"And you do." Norrell folds his arms. "You came from a poor background, and you are not being hanged for theft - "

"And you know I was a pickpocket!" The words ring out in the silence of the library, louder than Childermass means them to.

Norrell takes a breath and stares at his hands. "I know that, or I know that you have implied it, but - "

"But? Would you rather see me hanged for thievery?"

"Of course not."

"What makes me different?" Childermass knows he should back down, but he has heard this argument all too often from far too many people and he refuses to hear it from Norrell unchallenged. Not if Norrell truly values him as he has implied he does.

Norrell blinks rapidly. "I assume your natural strengths and qualities," he says in a puzzled tone of voice. Childermass is far too upset to take the compliment. 

"Luck," he says, "Pure and simple luck. I could have been there, same as I could have been in the river."

Norrell flinches at that. "It is not the same. You are not the same."

"Am I not? I know what desperation is like. I stole for my food, same as others. Some days we could scarce count on having a meal. Some days we couldn't." Childermass takes a deep breath and pushes down memories; normally they do not trouble him, but he recalls all too well nights spent hungry, hoping that the morning would bring something to eat and knowing it would not. He remembers giving what he had to the young ones and his mother giving hers to him, the worry that she would not survive. 

Norrell looks at him, head tilted slightly. "Is that why you - "

" _Not_  now," says Childermass. This is not the time for Norrell to be bringing up his particular issues with food, not when Norrell has just done what he has. It is too low a blow, whether or not it was intended in that spirit. 

"You need not snap. It was only a question." Childermass can see Norrell prickling up in earnest now, raising his defenses. He does not care. He is far too angry to take notice of it.

"And here's one for you," says Childermass. "Could you do that?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," says Norrell, frowning. 

"You with your house and your servants, could you survive like that? You rely on others for your daily bread and you see nothing wrong with approving of a man's death because he did not have your luxuries."

Norrell's lips have gone white with anger. "How dare you - "

"How dare you?" Childermass stands up. "How dare you sit there as if you know what it's like and judge?"

"Get out," says Norrell, "Leave me. I do not wish to speak to you."

"I'm going to York," says Childermass, and does not look back as the door slams behind him.

 

####  June 1804

Childermass stays gone for the entire rest of the month of May. There is enough business to do to keep him occupied; there always is. He writes businesslike letters, full of nothing but numbers and columns and facts. He does not draw.

In early June, almost three weeks later, he makes his way back from York, careful to time it to arrive late at night. He does not want to face any one in the household his first day back. Better to do it rested, having had the night to think things over.

It is dark when he arrives, so he picks his way around the house, checking. In his study on his desk Childermass expects cinder toffee; he finds new charcoal pencils. He knows Norrell will deny all knowledge of that, too, and he tucks them away in his coat-pocket. Then he goes to his room and changes into his bedclothes, exhausted from the journey.

Somehow, though, he cannot sleep. There is too much going on in his head, too many worries about the future. Has he gone too far? Will Norrell decide that he is at fault and sack him this time? Is he here, or has he taken it into his head to go off somewhere? It is unlikely, but not outside the realm of possibility.

Well. There is only one way he will get any rest tonight. The answer is obvious, even if he does not like it very much. Childermass pulls his coat on over his nightshirt, wraps it around himself, and creeps out into the dark still hallway. He comes quietly into Norrell's room. He tells himself it is only to check on him, but he knows what he is hoping for.

And he finds it, too; Norrell sits up in bed as soon as the he hears the creak, by the sound of the rustling. Childermass feels his way blindly to the bed and sits on it, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

For a while neither of them speak. 

Norrell says, "John - " almost as if he is expecting to be contradicted. Childermass can't manage _love_  just yet, but he reaches for Norrell's hand.

The barrier between them has not quite yet dissolved. Childermass says, "Are you keeping well?"

"As well as can be expected," says Norrell, only just hinting, by the way his hand tightens on Childermass's, at _with you gone_. "And did you complete your business to your satisfaction?"

"I did. I sent you letters."

"I read them." Painfully careful, there; Childermass knows Norrell is thinking of formality and what it means between them. "They were not as...lively as your usual ones."

"I wasn't feeling very lively," says Childermass.

"I could certainly see that." Norrell looks at their joined hands. "And now?"

"Give me time," says Childermass.

Norrell nods. "Do you - do you want to stay here?"

Childermass looks at him for a long moment. "Come with me," he says, and tugs Norrell by the hand.

Norrell, to his credit, does not resist; he obediently gets out of bed and follows him, pausing only to pull on his dressing gown, which makes Childermass smile for the first time in quite a while. Childermass leads him up, up, up to his room in the attic, his own knees creaking in protest and one hand resting for balance on Norrell's shoulder as they mount the stairs.

Childermass sits down on his narrow bed and regards Norrell, still standing there uncertainly by the doorway, looking small and afraid in his nightclothes. 

"You can sit," he says finally.

Norrell nods again and picks his way gently over to the bed. He perches nervously on the edge of it, hands folded and still in his lap. "Why did you bring me here?" he says, staring at them.

In truth, Childermass does not know the answer to that question. Perhaps it is that he wanted Norrell to see for himself that he is no different, that he is only good luck and a little cleverness away from having died long ago from hanging or disease or violence. Or perhaps this is the same sort of defiant vulnerability that his drawings are. 

It is for this same reason that he does not answer the question, but instead says, "My mother was hanged." He does not bother to soften it; he is still angry in some deep part of himself, and he wants Norrell to understand this. 

"I thought she died of a fever," says Norrell.

Childermass shakes his head minutely.

Norrell says, "Forgive me," and sounds as if he actually means it. Childermass wonders if this is the first time he has heard those words from Norrell's mouth as something more than a nod to politeness. 

The anger is not gone, but he is not sure in any case that it is about Norrell any more. Perhaps it is with all rich men who talk about things they do not understand, or perhaps it is with a system of justice which considered it better to hang a woman with five starving children to care for, four of them taken in from the goodness of her heart, than to hear why she had done what she had. He knows, suddenly, that he desperately wants touch, though. Some sort of reminder that he is not the alive. He turns toward Norrell and buries his face in his hair, wraps his arms around him.

Norrell hesitates, as if surprized by the gesture, and then wraps his own arms around Childermass very tightly.

"If you have no objection," he says, slightly muffled by the fabric of Childermass's nightshirt, "I would like to sleep."

Childermass nods, and then realizes Norrell cannot see it. He lets him go for a moment and lies down, squeezes himself into the corner, making space for Norrell on the bed to do the same. Norrell settles down besides Childermass so that they are front-to-back.

Childermass settles his arms around Norrell's waist the way they have done a thousand times, and it almost feels like home.

  
  


####  December 1804

Norrell is fretting.

Childermass would say that this is no unusual circumstance, but then, Childermass is not here. That is, in fact, what Norrell is fretting about. 

The estate of a poet in Keswick has come up quite suddenly for auction, and what a poet should be doing with books of magic, Norrell does not know; apparently, he had a wide interest in a variety of subjects. Norrell does not trust this, but there are rumored to be some quite important books there. 

However, Childermass is out seeing to the books in Manchester, which he thinks he may be able to convince the librarian to part from, and that is not something which can be neglected; nevertheless, neither can this opportunity be missed.

But there is still no word when Childermass will be back.

Norrell dithers for nearly a day before he decides what must be done. Finally, he rings the bell for Davey, says "Prepare my coach," and sails into his room to pack and revel in the brief look of astonishment on Davey's face. 

It takes him some time to pack. He would have a servant do it, but the risk of one of his vests or some other such thing being discovered is much too great, so he has grown used to the task, even if he is still not very quick about it. Once he finishes, he sits down and writes Childermass a note.

_ Childermass,  _

_ You will have observed by the time you arrive that I am no longer at Hurtfew. I am headed to Keswick for an estate sale as I could not be certain what time you would arrive and did not want to miss the books. If you have need, write to me at the George Inn. The sale will last for three days and I shall return directly after that. As much as I regret to leave my research, I fear it is necessary. _

_ Yrs, _

_ Gilbert Norrell _

This task now completed, he takes himself off to the coach to begin the journey.

The trip, unfortunately, is miserable, but then Norrell is a poor traveler, so he is expecting no better. The rain, on the other hand, is a bit of a surprise. He regards it resentfully as he makes his way into the inn.

He does observe that there is a notice about the estate sale posted in the common area. It comforts him to know that he is on time and in the right place.

Norrell goes to bed early and wakes up the next day to see that the rain has stopped. "Just as well," he mutters to himself; he has no desire to stay here for longer than necessary. The sale is some six miles hence and so he fetches Davey. 

He is somewhat puzzled as to how to discover the address to the sale, but to his relief, it is posted on the notice.

It seems a long time since he has gone to an estate sale on his own. So many of them are out of his general range of travel that it is generally easier to send Childermass, and even when he decides to go he prefers to have him along to sort out any inns and recalcitrant lawyers that may come up along the way.

Nevertheless, he knows how to do it. There is a point to be made now.

The sale is indoors, and very crowded. The entire first day, no books are put up for auction. Norrell is very cross indeed about this. He could have stayed home another day and waited for Childermass, or even rested at the inn to recover from his trip. The rain begins again on his journey home, and so it is in a foul mood that he stomps up to his room to undress and sleep.

On the table when he enters, he finds a letter waiting in his room. It is from Childermass, he realizes, and finds himself smiling without intending to.

He opens it.

_Sir,_  he reads,

_ Off to Keswick all by yourself? I can see you are full of the spirit of adventure. I shall care for the place while you are gone, for I returned just shortly after you left - to find the house in an uproar over your departure on your own. I believe some of the maids are under the impression that you have a relative who has died and whose money you stand to inherit. I told them you already had your inheritance, but such is the effect of novels. _

_ In any case, I shall see you soon. To comfort you on your trip - for very uncomfortable I suppose you are - I enclose a companion, as well as the news that I have successfully obtained the books from Chetham's library. Good luck. _

_ Childermass _

Norrell is smiling properly now, and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth and hide it, without entirely realizing he is doing it. The drawing is large, larger than any other Norrell has seen Childermass do, and full-length; it shows Dr Pale standing at a sort of door, perhaps made out of mists or rain, and looking just as he does in the little china figure that Norrell keeps in his library.

He tucks it into his coat-pocket to have with him tomorrow and goes to bed.

The rest of the sale goes rather well; he manages to find a few books, among them one called _How to putte Questiones to the Dark and understand its Answeres_ , which he suspects might be rather significant, even if it does trifle far too much with divination. It is, in consequence, in a much better mood that he goes home.

Childermass is sitting in the library, reading a book. As soon as Norrell comes in, he glances up.

"Look," says Norrell, holding the books he bought up with a triumphant flourish.

"Got them, did you?" says Childermass, raising an eyebrow. He rises from his chair and comes over to inspect them.

"Aye, I did," Norrell says proudly.

"And what was the meaning of that? You could have waited for me."

"I was afraid you would not get here in time. You said - earlier this year you implied that I ought to have more independence." Norrell lifts his chin. "Well? Do you consider this sufficient?"

Childermass looks at him and then shakes his head and smiles. "Just when I think I know you," he says wonderingly. "You are the most contrary creature to ever live, sir."

"That is incorrect. You are far more contrary."

"You're only proving my point."

Norrell hesitates, and goes on his toes for a kiss.

"Not today," says Childermass softly. "I'm sorry."

Norrell nods, slightly disappointed but not hurt. Tomorrow or the day after that it will be acceptable again, and he can wait until then.

He finds the letter with the drawing of Martin Pale in his bag, and, after a moment's thought, folds it and tucks it carefully into his desk drawer.


	10. 1805

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update this week, don't miss the next chapter!

####  January 1805

It has been snowing for three days now.

Norrell does not trust this. It should not snow for that long. A single night, followed by perhaps a few flakes during the day, should be the maximum. It should not be cold enough for it to snow for three days straight, ever.

Furthermore, the roads are beginning to be blocked, which is alarming.

"What shall I do when all the paths are in such bad shape that we cannot get any wood?" he complains. "I shall freeze to death. I am beginning to freeze now. Look." He sticks his hand on Childermass's face.

Sadly, this does not revenge him for Childermass's tendency to do the same. He only says, "Quite cold, sir," and pulls Norrell's vest over his head.

"It will end in trouble," says Norrell, "You will see."

Childermass tucks him into bed with an amused air which Norrell finds vaguely suspicious. Also, he is still cold.

Well, at least there is a solution for that. He says, "Childermass."

"Aye, sir?" Childermass turns halfway to the door.

"Come back after you've finished your duties." Norrell burrows further down in the blankets. 

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Why, sir? Missing me, are you?"

"You presume too much," says Norrell grumpily. "I require you to contribute your body heat. It is far too cold."

Childermass laughs, which always startles Norrell a little - he does not expect people to find him humorous. 

"All right then," he says. "Let me go and get my clothes."

He comes back in in nightshirt with his jacket wrapped around him tight, and climbs into Norrell's nest of blankets. 

"You ought to get a proper dressing gown," says Norrell, as Childermass drops his coat onto the floor and huddles down into the pile.

"Never felt the need of it."

"Wearing your coat looks very sloppy."

"Never been very concerned about that," says Childermass, tugging the covers a little higher. "Cold as blazes in here tonight, particularly given your usual preferred temperature."

"We have to conserve wood," says Norrell. "You think it is some sort of excuse to get you into bed, but I do need your body heat. And I suppose you need mine."

"Little as that may be, you nesh begger."

"I am not nesh." Norrell wiggles over next to Childermas which may, perhaps, undermine his point, but he does not care. "Even you are cold. It is perfectly reasonable for me to be as well."

"It is, is it?" Childermass turns toward him, propped on one elbow. "Well, come over here and prove it, then."

Norrell obliges by draping himself over Childermass's torso and kissing him, which pushes him onto his back. Childermass laughs into it, a sound transformed by their joined mouths into a strange vibrating rumble. His arms come up, holding Norrell steady in place, which Norrell thinks probably means he did not guess wrong.

He feels oddly reckless; perhaps this is a symptom of contemplating disasters. But, no, normally disasters make him feel nervous, not reckless. Perhaps it is the feeling that the entire world has fallen away, and it is just them, alone in this room, with the snow blanketing them from unfriendly eyes. 

Norrell kisses Childermass again, enjoying the heady rush of being able to do so with no warning and no impediment, and then reaches up to untie the plait Childermass always wears to bed. He makes a noise like a  contented cat as Norrell's hands tangle in it and murmurs against Norrell's lips, "Hannah'll know."

"What?" says Norrell, far too distracted by Childermass so near to him to fully absorb it.

"Any time we're kissing abed you take my hair out." Childermass sounds more amused than upset, Norrell thinks, though he's not sure.

"I like your hair," says Norrell.

"I had gathered."

"I believe it is one of your best features."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "You can't keep your hands out of it, I know that."

Norrell wants to protest, but he is even now preemptively disproving any objection he could make by the fact that he is still combing his fingers through it, enjoying the texture. He mutters, "You've never seemed to mind."

"Didn't say I did, but I have to brush it out in the mornings; it gets into a horrible tangle otherwise."

"What has this to do with the maids?" 

"She notices because it's only ever neat after we have been doing this."

The words only sink in after a moment. "What?" He jerks back.

Childermass sits up on his elbows and smiles at him. "Bothers you, does it?"

"Of course it does," says Norrell. "This is our private business. What does she think - ?"

"Do not fret about it," says Childermass. "She will never trouble you with such things; it is only I who have to bear the brunt of the torment." A little smile tugs up one corner of his mouth at this. "And of course you need not worry about your reputation. She is not likely to feel you much tarnished by whatever she assumes."

"Torment?" Norrell finds himself focusing on the word.

Childermass rolls his eyes. "Ever since we were children she has teased me about any subject she can get her hands on. But I give as good as I get, sir. Don't worry about that."

"I am more worried about my personal matters being discussed among the staff." Norrell frowns.

"It's inevitable with servants," says Childermass, "Do not fret. It will never leave the house. People always gossip, sir, but I promise you your staff are loyal to you."

Norrell looks hard at him. "If you are quite sure."

"I am. Would I ever hire people you could not feel safe with?"

"Hmm." 

It is quite difficult to remain on edge here with the continuing feeling of security. Norrell has another look at Childermass now that he has been put at ease, this one rather more speculative. 

His hair is a mess, his lips redder than usual with the kissing they've been doing. It is...fascinating. Norrell is transfixed by the colour of them, by the fact that he himself has done this to Childermass, has kissed him breathless and ruddy. There is a peculiar sort of power in it. Not like being Childermass's master: more like doing magic. Changing the world around you in mysterious and beautiful ways.

He reaches out, unable to stop himself, and traces his fingers over Childermass's lips. 

Childermass's breath comes in a warm rush across Norrell's gentle questing fingers, and his eyes fall closed. This pleases Norrell; it, too, is that same kind of power. He trails his hand over to Childermass's cheek, then leans in and kisses him again with Childermass's mouth still slack and his eyes still shut. Childermass makes a little noise of satisfaction.

"Didn't we start this out with me teaching you?" he asks when Norrell stops.

"One can always improve upon one's lesson," says Norrell seriously, and Childermass kisses him again, tugs gently at his lower lip. 

"And you were fretting about being snowed in," says Childermass.

"I still object," protests Norrell, but the reasons are scattering here and now. He is finally warm, and he cannot remember when that happened.

"Mm," hums Childermass, resting his forehead against Norrell's. "Whatever you say, love."

Naturally they run out of firewood before they can get out again for more. Norrell eats cold food for two days and grumbles all the while, huddling in two dressing gowns and three blankets.

But the evenings are not so bad.

 

####  June 1805

Hannah brings the tea in and gives Childermass a pointed look as she sets it down, then clears her throat before she leaves.

"What on earth was that about?" Norrell peers at the tray. "She has brought a great deal of food."

"She thinks I should be eating more," says Childermass, rolling his eyes. 

"Have you been?" says Norrell, turning round to look at him.

Childermass shrugs. “I skipped a few meals recently, but…" His posture is prickly, Norrell notes.

"You should keep your strength up," Norrell says. "If you are to be of any use - "

"As if I am any already - "

Norrell can see this careening toward another argument, one they have had before. He says, with the hope of stopping it before it starts, "I think you are."

Childermass breathes out slowly. He still looks fragile around the edges. Norrell, rubbing his hands together nervously, says "You do a great deal and I am merely concerned that you will do yourself some harm. I do believe we have previously established that finding a new man of business at this late date would be very difficult. And you promised you would be here to help me bring back English magic."

"That I did," says Childermass.

"So you cannot starve yourself to death, or what shall I do? It is far too late for me to find some one else to help me, Childermass."

Childermass's mouth turns up at the corner just a little. "Yes, sir," he says.

"So will you take tea, then?"

Childermass rubs his forehead. "If I do not, and I promise to eat supper, will that satisfy you?"

"You do promise? I shall ask Hannah. You know she will tell me."

"Yes, she will. And I will. Just...give me time to work up to it."

Norrell nods. "I can understand that. So long as you do work up to it, or tell me how to make it so that you can do so."

"You can't always fix it." Childermass tilts his head at him. "You know that by now, I take it."

"I do. I know how it works. But all the same."

Childermass leans back in his chair; he seems to relax a little under Norrell's reassurances. Norrell thinks this may be a good time to ask the question he has been wondering about, which is: "Why does it happen?"

"Why does what?" Childermass glances over at him. "The not eating?"

"Yes. You know I frequently feel unable to eat certain foods, and sometimes most food, because they taste wrong or feel wrong. Is it the same sort of thing?" Norrell hurries into the next sentence, not wanting Childermass to assume he is prying. "Because if so, perhaps we might be able to find some sort of food which consistently, or even frequently, settles easily for you. In the interest of efficiency, you understand."

This draws a small smile out of Childermass, but he shakes his head. "No, sir. It has nothing to do with the food itself. I simply...do not wish to eat. There are reasons, and you have guessed at some of them, but I would rather not talk about them."

Norrell nods. "I notice it is worse when you are in a bleak mood."

"Generally, yes. I suppose it's the same as when you worry yourself ill," says Childermass. "Some sort of...sickness of the mind manifested in the body." 

Norrell thinks to himself that this seems to describe his entire existence some days. Nothing wrong with him but worry; nothing wrong with him but peculiar senses; nothing wrong with him but a sort of silence in his mind that will not let him speak, and it all spills out into his body and wreaks havoc.

"Have you had it long, then?" he says. "Either of them."

Childermass shrugs. "I do not know. I cannot remember. Since I was in my teen years, at least."

"As to the moods I wonder if perhaps - perhaps your mother's hanging," says Norrell. "I have often wondered if my parents' death caused me to worry too much, or…"

"I do not know. It might be, for me or you. Or perhaps it is something inherent in us and we could not have avoided it."

Norrell is not sure whether he feels this is better or worse. Is it more comforting to think that, at one point, you might have been different? Or is it more comforting to feel that your particular maladies are part of you and cannot be changed and are, therefore, best to be resigned to? He does not know.

"Well," he says, "I much prefer you this way."

Childermass looks up at him.

"Not that I enjoy seeing you in distress, you see - " Norrell knows this is coming out very strangely, but he is not sure how to make it sound better, "Quite the contrary, so do not take this amiss, but you see, it would be very easy for you to be impatient with my foibles and you never are and I wonder if perhaps that is because you understand."

Childermass's look softens. "I do understand," he says.

"I know they are not the same - we are very different, of course - but all the same it is a comfort." Norrell laces his fingers together nervously.  

"It is," says Childermass. "I do not know very many other gentleman who would be willing to...indulge such things in their servants."

"Well, good, I suppose," says Norrell, somewhat puzzled; he does not consider it an indulgence. Possibly it is a disadvantage, but he considers it worth it as far as Childermass's skills go. It is no more an indulgence than paying Childermass is. But then, Norrell finds most other people's ways peculiar, so he supposes he should not be surprized that this is no exception.

Whatever the case, he is pleased to have averted an argument. This could easily have gone into territory involving harsh words and Childermass storming off to York yet again, and there is far too much work to do for that.

Norrell realizes that he is getting a little better at Childermass. He is getting better at seeing when certain paths should not be trod and when other should. Is this what getting along with people is about? Learning them slowly, like reading maps, until you feel out all the mysterious cracks and lumps and know how to avoid tripping over them?

It sounds very tiring en masse, he thinks, and is glad he has Childermass to concentrate on. And with this happy thought, he returns to his tea.

 

####  October 1805

Childermass is ill. He is also extremely vexed about it.

It ought not happen. He was raised on the streets, and he is quite accustomed to inclimate weather. He should be quite immune to all sorts of minor sicknesses that come along with snow and rain.

However, he finds himself with a stuffed nose and a fuzzy head on a gloomy fall week after what must have been one too many days out riding in the rain. There must have been other factors, he thinks.

However, he is not going to give into it. He refuses to shew his weakness. Perhaps if he ignores it, it will go away.

It is precisely in this manner that he ends up standing in Norrell's study, trying to pay attention to him as he gives him instructions. Childermass rarely attends Norrell in the study, but when Norrell is there seeing to other things, he sometimes calls Childermass in. Now, he is lecturing him on some books that he wants picked up next week.

"They should be in Latin, and your Latin is good enough to spot a fake," he is saying. "So of course if you see any of the usual signs of fraud you are to refuse the sale."

"Yes sir."

"And you must be absolutely certain to win over the Duke's representative no matter the cost."

"Yes sir." Childermass can feel a sneeze building behind his nose. Not now, he tells it.

"The subject should be lives of Aureates. They are a collection of newly-discovered biographies - far after the fact, of course, but I do sincerely hope that they will reveal some thing new." Norrell adopts his lecturing expression. "You see, there may be a hint toward more of Catherine of Winchester's supposed writing, which - "

Childermass sneezes. Norrell looks startled. "Are you quite all right?"

"Fine," says Childermass. "Supposed writing of Catherine of Winchester, you were saying."

"Yes. I personally find it very unlikely. All the same, I believe you should have a look."

Childermass, to his own annoyance, sneezes again.

"Really," says Norrell, "You might have told me you were unwell."

"I am not unwell. I am...slightly discomposed."

"To bed with you," says Norrell.

"What? No. I am not sick enough for that. I have no fever nor any pain."

"Bed," Norrell insists. "I will not have you ill when you leave next week. Who knows what sort of trouble it could cause? I shall call Hannah."

"Do not do that," says Childermass. "I will be fine. Just let me sit here and do my work."

Norrell gives him a suspicious look, but continues his lecture on precisely why this work is almost certainly a fraud.

The next morning, however, Childermass is much worse - dizzy and lightheaded, and his legs ache very badly. He lies in bed for longer than usual, trying to convince himself to get up and move, but when he stands he stumbles and almost falls.

With resigned dismay, he returns to his bed. Perhaps another few minutes lying down…

Childermass wakes up to Dido's pretty brown face over him, peering at him. He sits up abruptly, instinctual alarm at someone in his space without his knowledge shooting through him, and then clutches at his head as it spins. 

"What," he croaks.

"Hannah sent me up," Dido says, setting a tray down on the chair. "She said if you weren't down by now you were too poorly to be down and she wanted me to come and see. She would have come herself, you see, only she has duties to see to."

"Mm," says Childermass, peering at the tray. It contains tea and toast, which he has no stomach for whatosever right now. He should go down to Norrell and at least tell him that he is not well, perhaps even try to do his work, but the thought of standing up makes him want to roll back over and go to sleep.

"Shall I tell the master you're too ill to come down?"

Childermass reaches for the tea and stares at it for a few moments, trying to decide whether or not he is thirsty enough to risk nausea. "Tell him I'll be late."

When she is gone, he sets the tea down carefully, pushes at his thin flat pillow, and goes back to sleep.

The sky is much lighter when he drags himself out of sleep for third time that day; Childermass thinks it must be near ten o'clock. When was the last time he was in his own bed at ten o'clock in the morning? Then he realize what has woken him: the creak of feet on the steps up to his room. Probably Dido again with more tea, or Hannah there to lecture him, he thinks.

But it is Norrell's head with its little brocade cap that peeps in when he looks.

"Sir?" says Childermass.

"There you are," says Norrell in satisfaction, as if there had been some debate about the matter.

"I am," he says, puzzled. "I am sorry I am so late, but - "

"No, no." Norrell comes into the room with a determined look on his face. "I have not come about that."

"Then what?"

"You _are_  ill," says Norrell, rather accusingly.

"I suppose I am."

"But you are never ill, aside from pre-existing conditions." By which Childermass assumes Norrell means his legs or his moods.

"I know," says Childermass. "It is extremely vexing."

Norrell clears his throat. "Well, I came to tell you that you are to stay in bed, so that you can be well enough to go to the sale next week."

"I had gathered that." Childermass pulls the blankets up over his shoulder; if he is not to be lectured, he is going to rest more.

"And to wish you a speedy recover."

"Thank you," says Childermass, preparing to snuggle down.

"And - to stay, if you wish, to keep you company for a little while." Norrell fidgets. "I know that being ill is very unpleasant and your room is not very cheerful, so I thought perhaps…"

Childermass pushes the pillow out of the way so that he can see Norrell better. "But your work."

Norrell holds up his hands. "I brought a book."

Childermass smiles, the first of the day. "All right, then. Tell me what the book is about."

Norrell clears his throat and launches into an explanation, and Childermass feels his own breathing even out a little. It is strange; he feels safer with Norrell there, sitting in the hard chair opposite the bed and talking about Ralph Stokesey. Strange, too, that Norrell is here at all, that he would come to see Childermass in this gloomy little room. It means something, and if Childermass were not ill he would sort out exactly what that is.

Childermass dozes off to the sound of Norrell's dry, quiet little voice lecturing away about magic. He thinks there are worse things to fall asleep to.


	11. 1806

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second of today's updates, and the last chapter. I'll start posting the last story in the series, the London bit, next week.

#### February 1806

Some books of magic have rather dangerous effects. This is quite well-known and Norrell considers himself to be well aware of the consequences.

He does not expect thorns to grow out of one suddenly and without warning.

Particularly not while Childermass is carrying it in.

"It seems that there was a spell which had been half-cast already left in the book ever since the day it was written," Norrell explains later. "The library, as you know, has a great many enchantments on it. I believe there was a bad interaction. It is an illustration of what I often say. When it comes to magic, one cannot be too careful."

Childermass, his hands being dressed by Susan, only grunts.

Norrell feels vaguely guilty about the entire incident, although he cannot say why, as it was hardly his fault that some incompetent past magician had left a half-finished spell going. Nor could he have anticipated it. But every time he looks at Childermass's hands he winces a little. They are a mess of blood and cuts, shallow but no doubt painful. It had taken time and careful work to extract the thorns left inside of them.

Childermass sulks around the library for quite some time and pointedly takes care with the other books he brings in. "Wouldn't like to be stabbed in the kidneys," he says.

"It will not happen again," Norrell tells him every time. "The chances of it happening even once are miniscule."

Childermass only gives him a dirty look and carefully adjusts the bandages on his hands.

Of course, it is not very long until he is back to normal and in Norrell's bed again. It is, after all, February, and Childermass's room is colder than Norrell's. Not that Childermass will ever admit to being susceptible to the cold.

"Your bed is softer," he says when Norrell presses him about it.

"Ha," says Norrell. "You complain about it being too soft half the time you sleep here."

"I am injured," says Childermass. "Can you blame me for wanting a change of pace?"

"I do not know why you will not admit to feeling the cold."

"Because I don't." Childermass lays his head on Norrell's shoulder and sighs when Norrell begins stroking his hair.

"Nonsense." Norrell tuts. "Your hair is dirty," he adds, for the texture is very displeasing. Despite its wild appearance, Childermass's hair is generally moderately clean at least. Indeed, that is true of Childermass in general. He looks as though he ought to be filthy, but his linen is always well-tended and he always smells of himself rather than of unwashedness. Norrell has never considered that before.

Childermass rubs at the bandages at his hands. He says, "My hands are still cut up. I cannot wash it."

"Hmmm," says Norrell, sitting up. He takes Childermass's hands and inspects the undersides of them. The bandages are clean, no blood, but he can well imagine that they might well be very sore. "How are you managing to write?"

"The fingers are fine. It is the palms that I have an issue with now; that is where the deepest cuts were. I cannot wash my hair with the tips of my fingers alone. You'll have to put up with it." Childermass takes his hands back.  

"I see." Norrell considers this matter a moment. The hair will drive him mad if it remains like this until Childermass heals well enough to wash it himself, and it must be annoying Childermass as well. No good ever comes from Childermass annoyed; Norrell can testify to that from long and extensive experience of dealing with an annoyed Childermass.

He gets off the bed and into the little dressing room off his bedroom. Fortunately the the basin, bowl, and soap are still where he left them; after considering for a moment, he grabs all of it and takes it out to the room.

"Here," he says, bustling about preparing the basin for washing. "Come sit."

Childermass sits up.

"Not like that," says Norrell. "The way I do when you shave me. Which, incidentally, is a service you could also use."

"I would not trust you not to cut my throat on accident," says Childermass.

Norrell hmmmphs. "I have a very delicate touch, I'll have you know. I have to, for magical purposes."

"Have you ever actually shaved someone?" Childermass gets off the bed and sits down on the floor, wincing a little.

Norrell sits down beside him and guides his head down to the bowl. "Well, no. Not even myself, in fact. I tried a few times before you, but I generally cut myself rather badly."

"You are not investing me with a great deal of confidence in your skill as a barber, sir," says Childermass, leaning back.

"I will stick to the hair if it will make you feel better. Now ssh."

Childermass gives a sort of half-laugh and lets himself be handled into the position Norrell wants him in.

Thus equipped, Norrell considers. After a few moments' thought, he pours water over Childermass's hair.

"Ow," says Childermass. "It's cold."

"What was that about not feeling cold?"

"Air, not water poured over my bloody head. And it's creeping down my collar, too."

Norrell sighs and gets up to fetch a towel and drapes it over Childermass's shoulder. "There. Is that better?"

"Slightly."

This time Norrell gets the hair wet and rubs soap into it. A very odd feeling, washing hair this long. His own has been short - well, since he came to his uncle's, really. It could bring back bad memories, but Childermass's hair has a different texture, in any case.

He scrubs at the scalp, making sure to get it thoroughly soapy. Childermass makes a small contented noise, so small that he almost misses it, while he does this, and his eyes - already closed against soap - relax at the corners. He looks half-asleep, Norrell thinks, very calm and peaceful and unguarded.

He has a peculiar urge to lean down and kiss him, but he decides that to do so upside down would be very uncomfortable.

Norrell finishes soaping Childermass's hair and then rinses it, running his fingers through it again and again as he pours the water to remove all traces of soap. Then he lifts Childermass's head off the basin and wraps his hair up in a towel and rubs it thoroughly to dry it.

Childermass is languid, his movements unhurried, like a cat that has been petted into drowsiness. He says, his voice coming out just slightly lower and slower than normal, "I suppose if I plait my hair you'll just have it out again before morning."

Norrell shrugs. "I cannot predict the future, Childermass."

Childermass's long sideways smile spreads up his face. "I'm too tired to bother, anyway. Come on, then, if you're coming."

The issue of unpleasant texture solved, Norrell strokes Childermass's hair until he falls asleep. It is an unusual pleasure, being awake later than Childermass; Norrell most often falls asleep first, though both of them often wake in the night.

And it emboldens him to try something that, until now, he had scarcely dared think in the privacy of his own head. Childermass's own little usages help, but it still seems like a very great commitment, and the thought of it being ill-received alarms him. Besides, there is something he cannot quite move past about the openness of it.

But with Childermass asleep, he gathers his courage, and whispers "Goodnight, my dear" into the darkness.

  


#### August 1806

Quite unexpectedly, Norrell produces a package from his desk drawer when Childermass comes into the library. "Childermass, I have something for you."

Childermass an eyebrow. "What?"

"Come and see." Norrell puts the package, which is wrapped in stiff brown paper, on the desk.

Childermass obliges. It is soft this time, so not another book. "What is it?"

"You have to open it and see,' says Norrell reproachfully. "I have given you gifts before. You should know how they work."

Childermass manages not to laugh, and pulls at the string. He catches a glimpse of black fabric as the paper falls away and he lifts a sleeve out.

"A dressing-gown."

"I had it made. I do hope it fits. I had to get Lucas to come along and he is not quite your height and a little broader across the chest, but he was the closest. It really is very inconvenient. I tried to describe your dimensions to the tailor but he said it ought not matter too much for a dressing-gown." Norrell fidgets in his chair and looks at Childermass as if it is his fault that he is taller than Lucas and smaller than Davey.

"Don't fret, I am sure it will," says Childermass. But it's August and I shall not need it for some time."

"It occurred to me last week when you were away and I thought I would purchase it for you." Norrell shrugs. "At least I will not have to see you walking about in your coat at night if we get an unexpected cold spell."

"Why you're so bothered by it I don't know," says Childermass, feeling the fabric of the dressing-gown. It is some soft material instead of brocade, and not black as he had thought but a very dark blue. Where had Norrell had it made?

"It is untidy and undignified," says Norrell.

"And you are concerned for my dignity?"

"You are my servant; you represent me."

"In your bedroom?" Childermass raises an eyebrow. "To whom?"

"You are intentionally being difficult," says Norrell, sitting back and frowning at him. "Just accept the gift, Childermass."

"Aye, sir."

In fact Childermass wears it to bed that night. The halls of Hurtfew Abbey can be chilly, even in the summer, and he thinks it will please Norrell, perhaps.

Norrell's eyes track him as he comes into the room that night and takes it off and hangs it up on the bedstead.

"You wore it."

"I thought I might test it out."

"And?"

Childermass nearly smiles at the anxiety in Norrell's tone. "It fits fine, sir."

"The colour suits you." This is so sudden - and so unlike the sort of remark that Norrell generally makes - that it startles Childermass a little.

"Does it?" Childermass shrugs and slides under the covers. "I have never given much thought to it."

"You might look well in colours other than black," says Norrell.

Childermass laughs a little scornfully. "And since when have you paid attention to such things?"

"I have never bought you an item of clothing before. I wanted to make sure it would work, and it does. That is all." Norrell rolls over, looking rather cross. Hedgehogging again, Childermass notes, and smiles a little to himself.

"Aye, it does, and I thank you for it." He wraps his arms around Norrell. "Soothe your quills down, love."

Norrell harrumphs. "You are being absurd again."

"I am surprized that you pay any attention at all," says Childermass. "Did we not agree that neither of us were much to look at?"

Norrell makes one of his tching noises. "What fashionable young ladies may think of you I do not know, but I find you pleasing enough to look upon."

Childermass does not manage to contain his laughter then. It is so precisely Norrell: exact, restrained, and somewhat peculiar, but sweet through its unexpectedness.

"I do not see what is so very humorous," says Norrell, still yet grumpier.

"Nothing whatsoever. And I find you pleasing enough to look upon, as well." The startling thing is that this is true; intellectually, Childermass knows that Norrell is extremely plain, and he would never describe his master as beautiful. But familiarity can work odd things. Norrell's almost extraordinarily ordinary features are pleasing because they belong to him. Childermass wonders if he ought to be worried about that, but it is rather late now.

"Well," says Norrell, sounding pleased at last.

Childermass kisses the top of his head. "Are you ready to go to sleep, then?"

"It is you who has been prolonging the discussion," says Norrell. "I have been ready to sleep for the past half hour."

Childermass does not press the issue. He blows out the candle and closes his eyes.

Childermass wakes at half past four with a journey to make. This is early even for him, but Cumbria is some distance and he has an ostensible magician to see to. He unwinds himself from Norrell, careful not to wake him, and finds his clothes.

As he is dressing, Norrell rolls over. Childermass makes a face; Norrell is invariably cranky during the day when woken too early. Then again, Childermass himself will not have to deal with it.

"You are leaving for Cumbria?" says Norrell sleepily.

"Aye." Childermass finishes his neckcloth and comes over to give Norrell a kiss on the forehead. "I shall come directly back. Expect me soon."

"Mm." Norrell's eyes close and he rolls back over onto his side of the bed.

"Goodbye, sir."

Norrell, half asleep again already, mumbles, "Goodbye, my dear."

Childermass stops. "What was that, sir?"

But Norrell does not respond; either he has fallen back asleep, or he has no wish to repeat his previous sentiments.

Childermass, though, is quite sure of what he had heard. The appellation is very like Norrell: slightly old fashioned, subtle, restrained. He wonders to himself how long Norrell has been holding it in, using it in his head and nowhere else. As long as Childermass has been using _love_? That seems unlikely, for Norrell is nothing like so good at hiding his thoughts from Childermass as Childermass is at hiding his from Norrell.

The surprizing thing, though, is that he finds he does not mind.

He tucks the thought into his pocket to keep him warm on the long cold ride ahead.

  


#### December 1806

Childermass comes in to deal with the business of the day and finds Norrell sitting at his desk. This is not unusual; Childermass has many other duties and frequently arrives after Norrell does and finds him already started on his own work.

Nor, in fact, is what he finds so unusual. Norrell is sitting clutching a letter with a sour look on his face. This is not at all an uncommon occurrence. Norrell spends a great deal of his letter-reading time with a sour look on his face.

"Look at this," says Norrell in disgust, handing a letter to Childermass.

By now, Childermass is quite used to this manner of being greeted when he walks into the study. He wonders what Norrell has against reading the contents aloud, and takes the letter.

It is a request to see Norrell's library. No wonder he is in such a dither. The gentlemen in question are members of the York society - they identify themselves as such, although Childermass would have known that in any case. Honeyfoot is one of the longer-standing members, and Childermass remembers him quite well. A tall red-faced gentleman, less puffed up than Foxcastle, which bodes well.

Segundus. That one Childermass cannot remember. New, he must be - how long has it been since the Society took on a new member? Quite a while, he thinks. Most of them are elderly gentlemen, more prone to discussing the past than asking new questions of the future. And this must be a new question, else they would not want to see Norrell's library. Their purpose is almost certainly research.

Well. That could be useful, depending on what they are researching. But the letter does not say; it consists entirely of the request.

"Came today, did it?" says Childermass, putting the letter back down on the desk. "I cannot imagine it is very pleasing to you."

Norrell sighs. "What am I to do with this? If I ignore it I fear they shall merely write again. It will be exactly like my cousin. I shall know no peace. I do not know why they felt the need to disrupt me in such a manner. They do not even explain themselves. Really it is unconscionable."

"Tell them yes," says Childermass.

"What?" Norrell stares, his small blue eyes opening as wide as they will go. He looks, Childermass thinks, rather like an indignant cat.

"Tell them yes, sir. Let them come and see your library."

"What?" Norrell leans forward. "You are talking nonsense, Childermass. Strangers in my library? Whatever good could it do?"

"They could be a witness to your magic."

Norrell's face instantly collapses into another sour look. "No. I told you, in my own time - "

"And when will that be? You're not getting any younger, sir, and nor am I. You have to act."

Norrell splutters wordlessly.

So, of course, Childermass presses the advantage. "Last time you said maybe. This is the best chance you'll have, sir. If you are to change the course of English magic, I tell you that you need to act."

"But they are theoretical magicians!" Norrell pronounces this last phrase with all the dislike that he might pronounce _rebellious Frenchmen_  or _stray cats_.

Childermass sighs. "And who else will you shew your magic to, if not theoretical magicians? Laymen?"

Norrell makes a face.

"No, I thought not. And there are no other practical magicians - I saw to that under your orders." Childermass leans over, hands against the desk. "Who, then?"

Norrell's gaze falls to his desk. He does not speak, which means he cannot think of any protest.

Childermass presses the advantage, because Norrell cannot stall anymore. He is ready; he only needs to be convinced of it. "They are asking the right questions. You know they are."

Norrell blinks at him rapidly with his small blue eyes. He looks down at the letter creased in his hand, and for a long moment he is silent.

"Yes," he says. "That is true. Some one must know. It might as well be these gentlemen. I shall tell them they may come."

Childermass nods and begins on his own business while, behind him, Norrell slowly and reluctantly writes out a letter that will have more impact on their lives than possibly any other one he has ever written.

This is going to change everything. He knows it is.

He only hopes it is the right decision - both for them, and for Norrell's cause. Only time will tell now.

  



End file.
